THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE   NIGHT  SIDE  OF   LONDON 


A    PICCADILLY    I. ADV. 
From  an  oil  painting  by  Tom  Browne, 


THE  NIGHT  SIDE 
OF  LONDON 


BY 

ROBERT    MACHRAY 

AUTHOR   OF   "THE   VISION   SPLENDID,"    "SIR  HECTOR,"    ETC. 


I, 


!> 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
TOM  BROWNE,   R.I.,   R.B.A. 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

1902 


Copyright,  1902 
By  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company 


July,  1902 


ELECTROTYPED    AND    PRINTED    By    J.   B.    LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY,    PHILADELPHIA,    U.S.A. 


■       ' 


.        <    .    •  1      .    .  .      ,  ' 


Ml  £tu 


PREFACE 

THIS  book  is  a  record  of  Things  Seen  in  London  by 
night  in  the  first  two  years  of  the  twentieth  century — a 
record  made  by  pen  and  pencil.  The  Artist  and  the 
i  luthor  worked  together,  visiting  the  places  described,  and 
seeing  the  scenes  herein  set  forth;  the  volume  is  there- 
fore the  result  of  what  may  be  called  their  common 
observation. 

This  book  is  not  by  way  of  being  a  complete  record  of 
the  Night  Side  of  London,  though  it  is  perhaps  as  com- 
plete as  there  is  any  object  in  making  it.  Tzuo  or  three 
of  the  more  familiar  phases  of  London  by  night  have  not 
been  reproduced  or  touched  upon;  there  is  nothing,  for 
instance,  said  about  St.  Martin's  le  Grand  at  midnight,  or 
about  a  newspaper-office  at  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  or  about  the  Chinese  opium-dens  in  the  East 
End.  Nor  is  there  a  chapter  on  the  River  by  Night;  ap- 
plication was  made  to  the  Commissioner  of  Police  for 
permission  to  accompany  one  of  the  river  police-boats  on 
its  "  rounds,"  but  it  was  refused.     And  for  obvious  rea- 


CM  i  <?AYA 


vi  PREFACE 


Ish 
ho 

,  are 
?s  of 

in 


sons  nothing  is  said  about  the  worst  and  most  devilis 
features  of  the  Night  Side  of  London.  For  those  wh 
wish  to  become  acquainted  with  these  hideous  things,  m 
there  not  guides  to  be  found  lurking  near  the  entrances  i 
some  of  the  great  hotels  of  Loudon — just  as  is  the  case  i 
Paris? 

More  than  thirty  years  have  passed  since  the  publica- 
tion of  the  last  edition  of  a  book  which  bore  the  same  title 
as  this — "  The  Night  Side  of  London."  It  ran  through 
several  editions,  and  that  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  had 
no  illustrations ;  this  bore  witness  to  the  widespread  in- 
terest taken  in  the  subject.  At  the  time  of  the  publication 
of  the  former  "  Night  Side  of  Loudon,"  the  tozvn  pre- 
sented certain  aspects  of  night-life  which  have  since 
passed  away,  but  which  undoubtedly  were  of  unusual 
interest  to  those  keenly  observant  of  the  human  tragi- 
comedy. Thirty  years  ago  or  so  the  "  Argyle  Rooms," 
'  Crcmornc,"  and  the  "  Casino"  still  flourished,  as  did 
the  "  Cave  of  Harmony"  and  "  Caldwell's."  Since  these 
days  there  has  been  a  considerable  change,  at  all  events 
on  the  surface,  in  the  night-life  of  Loudon.  This  has  been 
brought  about  by  "various  influences — principally,  by  the 
much  greater  activity  and  efficiency  of  the  police,  urged 
on  by  public  opinion. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

Preface      .........  v 

I.  Piccadilly  Circus  (ii  p.m.  to  i  a.m.)       ...  i 

II.  In  the  Streets           .......  22 

III.  In  the  Streets — continued  (Ratcliff  Highway)      .  44 

IV.  "  In    Society"     ........  64 

V.  Still  "  in  Society"   .......  79 

VI.  Not  "  in  Society"       .......  95 

VII.  An  East  End  Music-Hall 112 

VIII.  Earl's  Court      ........  125 

IX.  The  Masked-Ball     .......  135 

X.  The  Shilling  Hop     .......  152 

XI.  Club  Life  .........  160 

XII.  A  Saturday  Night  with  the  "  Savages"  .         .         .  174 

XIII.  With  the  "Eccentrics"   (3  a.m.)     ....  191 

XIV.  "  La  Vie  de  Boheme" 199 

XV.  Sunday  Night  at  the  New  Lyric     ....  217 


Vll 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XVI.  A  "  Night  Club" 
XVII.  The  National  Sporting  Club 
XVIII.  A  School  for  Neophytes  . 
XIX.  "Wonderland" 
XX.  New  Year's  Eve  at  St.  Paul's 
XXL  The  Hoppers'  Saturday  Night 


page 
226 

235 
251 
259 
270 
281 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


¥¥ 

A  Piccadilly  Lady 

Girl's  Head    .... 

Man  From  Up  There     . 

Piccadilly  Circus.     Midnight 

A  Gay  Little  Jap 

On  the  Prowl 

"Jimmy's."     12.30  a.m.   . 

An  Old  Old  Woman 

Coffee  Stall  at  Hyde  Park  Corner 

Coffee  Stall  in  New  Oxford  Street.     2  a.m 

Trying  to  Reason  with  Her 

Standing  in  Little  Groups   . 

Burglar  throws  Some  Light 

Singing  in  the  Street  . 

A  Ratcliff  Picture 

Turning  and  Churning  Round  and  Round 

Shouting   Shrill  Abuse 

Down  goes  the  Drunken  Man  Flat  on  His 

The  American  Girl       .... 

The  Restaurant  Dinner 


Frontispiece 


Title 


Back 


■page 


page 


3 

7 
13 

18 
20 
25 
27 
29 
34 
38 
43 
47 
53 
56 

59 
61 
66 
69 


IX 


X 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


Crowd  on  the  Great  Staircase 

A  Cosy  Nook 

At  the  Empire 

The  Empire   Promenade 

Covent  Garden  Opera 

A  First-  Nighter    . 

Supper  at  the  Carlton 

Dinner  at  the  Cafe  Boulogne,  Soho 

A  Twopenny  Pie  .... 

A  Typical  East  End  Showman   . 

The  Lion-Tamer    .... 

Slanging  each  other     . 

A  Coster  Song        .... 

The  Lightning   Sketcher 

The  Pet  Comedian 

"  Mr.   Guzzle"         .... 

Earl's   Court  Exhibition 

Seen  at  Earl's  Court    . 

A  Type 

Another  ..... 

The  Big  Wheel     .... 
The  Dancers  quickly  form  up  on  the 
Behind  the  Bandstand 
Covent  Garden   Ball  Girls    . 
Last  Waltz   ..... 
Making   Tracks      .... 
The  Cake-Walk  at  a  Shilling  Hop 


Floor 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


XL 


t\GE — the  Bar 


A  Sketch  at  the  Press  Club 

Type  of  Club- man 

Another 

Bounder's   Club 

Type  of  Club-man 

Another 

A  Toast 

Savage  Club  Menu 

Saturday  Night  at  the  Sav 

In  the  Chair — "  Brother  Savages,  You  may  Smoke" 

"  To    Welcome   the    Harvest    Ho-pip-pip-pit-pome" — Savage 

Club 
Types  of  "  Savages" 
Savage  Club  Concert    . 
"  Pay,   Pay,    Pay  !" 
An  Eccentric  Club  Menu 
The  Eccentric  Club  Clock 
The  Bar  at  the  Eccentric  Club 
A  Story  by  a  Member  of  the  London  Sketch  Club 
Immaculate  Shirt-Fronts  were  covered  with  Drawings 
A  Night  at  the  London  Sketch  Club — the  "  Bousa"  Band 
The  New  Lyric  Club,  Sunday  Night,  ii  p.m. 
A  New  Lyric  Club-man         .... 
Testimonial  given  Mr.  Luther  Munday 
Night  Club  Scene  ..... 

Some  Members  of  the  National  Sporting  Club 
Floored !  ....... 


page 
161 

163 
165 
167 
170 
171 
173 
178 
181 
183 

184 

185 
188 
190 
193 

195 
197 
209 
211 

213 
219 
221 

223 
231 
236 
239 


Xll 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  Bar  at  the  National  Sporting  Club 

Dk.  "Jack"   Examines  the  Competitors 

Types  of  Boxers    . 

Type  of  Boxer        : 

The  Capting 

Habbijam's 

Type  of  Boxer 

Type  of  Boxer 

*' Axy  Toff  want  a  Jelly?" 

Boxixg  at  "  Wonderland,"  Whitechapel 

Burglar  entering  Open  Window  . 

Should  Auld  Acquaintance  be  Forgot? 

"  For  Auld  Lang  Syne" — New  Year's  Eye 

'The  Cock  o'  the  North" — Ludgate  Hill,  New  Year 

Your  Eyes  fasten  Themselves  on  a  Procession  . 

The  Women  and  the  Children  drink  Generously 

She  Dances  with  a  Certain  Rough  Gracefulness 

Then  hangs  out  of  the  Window 

The  Xight  Side  of  London  Finished     . 


5  Eye 


page 

-43 

245 

248 
249 
250 

253 
256 

257 
263 
265 
269 

273 
277 

279 
285 
289 

293 
298 
300 


THE 

NIGHT  SIDE  OF  LONDON 

¥¥ 

CHAPTER    I 

PICCADILLY    CIRCUS,     II     P.M. 1     A.M. 

'  Put  me  down  at  the   Piccadilly  end  of  Regent   Street,'   said   the 
lady  of  the  feathers." — Flames,  by  R.  S.  Hichens. 

Piccadilly ! 

Why  Piccadilly,  and  not  something  else — some  other 
name  ? 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  imagine  any  appellation  less 
characteristically  English  than  Piccadilly,  yet  it  is 
known  all  over  the  English  world ;  indeed,  like  "  damn" 
and  some  other  things  that  won't  wash  clothes,  it  may 
be  said  to  be  a  household  word.  The  famous  Circus 
and  street  by  any  other  name  might  have 
just  as  special  an  aroma,  as  exotic  a  bouquet,  piccadiiiv? 
as  they  undoubtedly  possess  (particularly  at 
certain  hours),  but  somehow  the  foreign-sounding  tag 
appears  to  have  an  appropriateness  of  its  own ;  it  is  as 
if  there  were  some  eternal  fitness  about  it.  Still  this 
does  not  quite  answer  the  question,  Why  Piccadilly? 

The   query   has    bothered    many   of   the   good   people 
who   are   interested    in   this   kind   of   conundrum.      The 


2  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OE    LONDON 

correct  answer,  perhaps  because  of  its  odious  obvious- 
ness, does  not  seem  to  have  occurred  to  anybody :  Pic- 
cadilly of  course  gets  its  name  from  the  fact  that  it 
is  the  Place  of  Peccadilloes,  the  Promenade  of  the 
Little  Sinners — to  put  the  matter  politely  and  cleli- 
cately,  as  a  fashionable  clergyman  might,  waving1  the 
while  his  gloved  hands  in  dainty  deprecation.  Older 
writers  solemnly  debated  whether  the  name  were 
derived  from  peccadillo,,  the  Elizabethan  ruff  for  the 
neck,  or  from  '  Peccadilla  Hall,"  a  house  formerly 
standing  in  the  neighbourhood.  Sir  John  Suckling 
brings  us  nearer  the  mark  when  he  alludes  to  the 
Peccadillo  Bowling  Green.  Blount,  in  his  book  which 
has  the  endearing  title  of  Glossographia,  tells  us  that 
Piccadilly  got  its  name  from  the  pickadill,  which  was 
a  band  worn  round  the  bottom  of  a  lady's 
The  "skin-     ski].t      Once,  says  he  in  his  chatty  way.  there 

house.  '  - 

was  a  famous  ordinary  near  St.  James's 
called  Pickadilly,  and  he  declares  that  it  "  took  denomi- 
nation because  it  was  the  outmost  or  skirt-house  of  the 
suburbs"!  Skirt-house — the  phrase  is  deliciously  quaint 
and  suggestive;  it  seems  strangely  appropriate,  even 
prophetic,  for  assuredly  a  skirt-house  of  sorts  Piccadilly 
still  remains. 

To  us  of  these  twentieth-century  times  it  is  almost 
incredible  that  Piccadilly  "near  St.  James's"  should 
ever  have  been  the  western  boundary  of  London.     The 


PICCADILLY    CIRCUS  3 

middle  classes,  who  mostly  inhabit  the  suburbs  in  these 
days — each  man,  so  to  speak,  in  a  neat  little  skirt-house 
of  his  own — lives  miles  and  miles  out  of  earshot  of  the 
bells  of  St.  James's,  although  of  a  fine  summer's  after- 
noon you  will  see  representatives  of  them  in 
shoals,  and  for  the  most  part  in  skirts,  drink-  "by day5 

ing  tea  in  the  shops  at  the  Circus  end  of  Pic- 
cadilly. Then,  for  a  couple  of  hours,  say  from  four  to 
six,  Piccadilly  is  as  redolent  of  the  ordinary  square- 
toed  British  well-to-do-ness  as  any  place  you  like  to 
mention — is  as  obtrusively  respectable  as  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing congregation  in  a  small  Scotch  town.  During  the 
other  hours  of  daylight  Piccadilly  is  fashionable,  aristo- 
cratic, autocratic ;  it  is  one  of  the  great  streets  of  the 
world — perhaps,  in  a  sense,  its  greatest. 

But  it  is  not  these  aspects  of  it  that  the  Man  From 
Up  There  wants  to  see;  he  has  come,  he  tells  you  with 
engaging  frankness,  to  see  the  Show 
"  after  the  theatres  come  out,"  when 
the  Circus,  and  the  parts  "  contagious" 
thereunto,  become  the  humming  centre 
of  "things."  ("Things"  is  a  trifle 
vague,  but  no  doubt  the  subject  is  best 
draped  that  way. )     A  humming  centre 

,  i       TT  I'll         /""  "        r  MAN    FROM   UP   THERE. 

truly  enough  Piccadilly  Circus  is  from 

eleven   to  one  at   night — it   is  the  centre  of  the   Night 

Side  of  London.     There  is  room  for  uncertaintv  as  to 


4  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

what  is  the  centre  of  London  by  day.  Mr.  Joel  Solo- 
mons thinks  he  has  good  reason  for  saying  it  is  to  be 
found  in  his  own  Tom  Tiddler's  Ground,  which  he 
locates  not  far  from  Draper's  Gardens.  The  Honour- 
able  Member   for   Muddleburgh   has   an   idea 

The  night  ° 

centre  of  that  it  is  at  Westminster,  night  or  day,  and 

London. 

as  it  is  the  only  idea  he  probably  has  he  cleaves 
to  it,  even  as  a  land-crab  holds  on  to  a  monkey's  tail. 
Sam  Bolton,  cabman,  of  74  Great  Scott  Street,  has  had  it 
radiused  into  him  that  Charing  Cross  is  the  "bobby's 
bull's-eye"  of  the  metropolis.  And  so  on  and  on  and  on. 
But  at  night,  at  the  hours  named,  or  rather  between 
them.  Piccadilly  Circus  and  the  purlieus  thereof  are  the 
centre  of  London,  nor  is  there  any  other  part  of  the 
town  which  will  care  to  dispute  with  the  Circus  this 
tragical  distinction. 

Piccadilly  Circus  and  the  purlieus  thereof  form  an 
area  with  tolerably  well-defined  boundaries.  On  the 
east  is  Leicester  Square,  lit  by  ten  thousand  electric 
lamps;  in  the  midst  of  the  Square  stands  the  statue  of 
Shakespeare,  on  whose  sculptured  face  wandering  lights 
of  blue,  red.  orange,  and  green,  flashed  from  the  Empire 

and  the  Alhambra,  dance  in  a  fantastic  harle- 
boundaries.      quinade.     North-east  is  Shaftesbury  Avenue, 

flanked  by  the  whole  dubious  region  of  Soho 
— a  district  which  in  a  sense  holds  more  of  the  Night  Side 
of  London  than  all  the  rest  of  it  put  together.     Further 


PICCADILLY    CIRCUS  5 

round  to  the  north  is  Glasshouse  Street,  the  very  name 
of  which  is  an  apologue.  Then  Regent  Street,  as  far 
as  Oxford  Circus  on  the  north  and  Pall  Mall  on  the 
south,  with  Piccadilly  Circus  itself  in  between.  Of 
course  there  is  Piccadilly  itself,  say  as  far  as  Bond 
Street.  Nor  must  mention  be  omitted  of  the  Haymar- 
ket  on  the  south-east.  Time  wras  when  the  Haymarket 
played  a  large  part  in  the  night  life  of  the  town,  but 
that  day  (to  be  a  little  Irish)  is  past.  This  is  what  Du 
Maurier  says  of  it  in  The  Martian — 

'  Fifty  years  ago  every  night  in  the  Haymarket  there 
was  a  noisy  kind  of  Saturnalia,  in  which  golden  youths 
joined  hands  with  youths  by  no  means  golden,  to  fill 
the  pockets  of  the  keepers  of  night  houses."  And  he 
goes  on  to  speak  of  some  of  the  famous  or  infamous 
places  of  the  locality,  such  as  "  Bob  Croft's,"  and  "  Kate 
Hamilton's,"  and  the  "  Piccadilly  Saloon."  In  another 
part  of  this  same  book  he  narrates  how 
'  Barty"    and    Robert    Maurice    went    to    the  centre1 

Haymarket,  and  "  Barty,"  by  his  music,  made 
five  pounds  '  in  no  time,  mostly  in  silver  donations 
from  unfortunate  women — English,  of  course — who  are 
among  the  softest-hearted  and  most  generous  creatures 
in  the  world."  There  is  a  curious  piece  of  testimony, 
if  you  like.  One  wonders  (a  trifle  meanly,  perhaps,  but 
quite  humanly)  just  what  it  was  built  on. 

The  Show,  as  the  Man  From  Up  There  terms  it,  is 


6  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

seen  at  its  best — that  is,  its  worst — on  a  still,  warm, 
starry  night  at  the  end  of  June,  or  the  beginning  of  July, 
when  the  London  season  is  at  its  height.  The  Show, 
in  its  later  phases,  seems  never  so  tragical  on  a  summer 
evening  as  it  does  when  winter  rain,  or  snow,  or  biting 
blasts  add  grim  or  squalid  touches  to  the  scene.  Yon  have 
dined,  let  us  suppose,  well  and  wisely  at  the  Carlton  or 
Prince's,  the  Troc"  or  the  Imperial,  or  some  other 
of  the  numerous  caravanserais,  which  are  the 
show  begins  descendants  of  the  once  celebrated  Evans's 
Supper  Rooms,  and  most  of  which  lie  well 
within  the  area  tributary  to  the  Circus.  A  minute  or 
two  after  eleven  you  will  'take  your  station" — to  em- 
ploy the  discreet  language  of  the  Court  Circular,  just 
as  if  you  were  a  Royalty,  or  a  Serenity,  or  a  Trans- 
parency, the  last  being  for  obvious  reasons  highly  recom- 
mended for  immediate  use — at  a  point  of  vantage. 

The  best  position,  for  at  least  the  first  half-hour  of 
the  Show,  is  the  pavement  between  Piccadilly  and 
Regent  Street,  on  the  north-west  of  the  Circus  oppo- 
site the  Fountain.  You  look  at  the  Fountain.  On  its 
steps  sit  strange  female  shapes,  offering  penny  flowers, 
or  haply  tuppenny,  to  the  passers-by.  These  female 
shapes,  maybe,  are  the  forms  of  women  who  once  num- 
bered themselves  amongst  the  night-blooming  plants  of 
the  town;  anyway,  there  they  are  now!  Time  was, 
who  knows,  when  they  and  love  were  well  acquainted — 


PICCADILLY    CIRCUS— MIDNIGHT. 


PICCADILLY    CIRCUS  9 

and  now  "  Only  a  penny,  sir.  only  a  penny  for  a  bokay!" 
Then  your  eyes  will  range  upward  to  the  top  of  the  Foun- 
tain, and  you  will  immediately  observe  that  a 
great  sardonic  humorist  of  a  sculptor  has  Fountain6 
placed  there  a  Cupid,  armed  with  bow  and 
arrow.  The  little  god  is  poised  on  eager  tiptoe  in 
act  to  launch  his  sharp-edged  dart.  As  the  night  ad- 
vances you  will  not  fail  to  appreciate  more  and  more 
the  horrid  humour  of  that  bronze  figure,  that  pagan 
parable  of  the  Circus.  Few  people  care  for  such  pointed 
satire  as  this,  and  there  is  something  to  be  said  for  those 
who  maintain  that  the  Cupid  should  disappear,  and  be 
replaced  by  the  Giddy  Goat  or  some  other  more  appro- 
priate symbol. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  Circus  is  rather  quiet.  A  'bus 
now  and  again  rumbles  up,  and  interposes  itself  between 
you  and  the  Fountain,  hiding  that  mocking  image.  A 
girl  of  the  night,  on  her  prowl  for  prey,  casts  a  keen 
glance  at  you,  and  flits  silently  past  like  a  bat.  Behind 
you — you  can  see  her  with  the  tail  of  your  eye — pauses 
a  Painted  Lady,  picture-hatted,  black-haired,  bella- 
donna'd,  rouged,  overdressed,  but  not  more  so  than 
many  a  Great  Lady.  She  makes  a  true  picture  of  the 
town,  of  one  aspect  of  the  Night  Side  of  London,  as  she 
stands  with  her  back  to  the  down-drawn,  dull-red  blinds 
of  the  shop  window  in  the  rear.  A  blind  beggar  now 
breaks  in  upon  you  with  a  hoarse,   indistinct  cry,   that 


io  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

sounds  like  many  curses  compressed  into  one,  while  his 

iron-shod  staff  strikes  hard  and  sharp  on  the  pavement 

within  an  ace  of  your  toes.     A  "  gentleman  of 

Overture  /      rr  \  1  "  >•  i         1  ■  "  \ 

to  the  show.  (off)  colour  —a  buck  nigger  an  Ameri- 
can would  call  him — goes  by.  a  gratified 
smirk  on  his  oily,  thick-lipped  face,  and  on  his  arm  a 
pale,  lip-laughing  English  girl !  Somehow  you  swear 
and  turn  away.  And  then  a  few  more  minutes  pass,  and 
the  Circus  suddenly  buzzes  with  life;  it  hums  like  a  giant 
hive.  Here  are  movement,  colour,  and  a  babel  of  sounds! 
Till  you  get  used  to  it,  the  effect  is  somewhat  stunning. 
But  now  the  overture  is  finished,  and  the  curtain  is 
rung  up. 

It  is  a  scene  that  stirs  the  fancy,  that  touches  the 
imagination.  As  the  theatres  and  music-halls  of  London 
empty  themselves  into  the  streets,  the  Circus  is  full  of 
the  flashing  and  twinkling  of  the  multitudinous  lights  of 
hurrying  hansoms,  of  many  carriages  speeding  home- 
ward to  supper,  of  streams  of  people,  men  and  women, 
mostly  in  evening  dress  walking  along,  smiling  and  jest- 
ing, and  talking  of  what  they  have  been  to  see.  You  be- 
lli ild  policemen  wrestling,  and  not  unsuccessfullv,  with  the 
traffic  in  the  midst  of  the  tumult.     You  catch 

The  curtain  i  •  i  •  .  i  <•,       •  , 

goesup  charming   glimpses   m   the   softening   electric 

light  of  sylph-like  forms,  pink-flushed  happy 

faces,  snow)-  shoulders  half-hidden  in  lace  or  chiffon,  or 

cloaks  of  silk  and  satin.     Diamonds  sparkle  in  My  Lady's 


PICCADILLY    CIRCUS  n 

hair;  her  light  laughter  ripples  over  to  you.  and  you 
smile  responsive;  a  faint  fragrance  perfumes  the  wan- 
dering air,  and  the  vision  sweeps  past  you,  on  outside 
your  radius.  And  there  are  many  such  visions,  each 
with  its  own  story,  its  own  revelation — but  with  these 
we  have  nothing  to  do,  further  than  to  say  that  they  are 
all  part  of  this  pageant  of  the  night,  or,  if  you  like  the 
notion  better,  it  is  a  scene  out  of  high  comedv,  infinitely 
allusive  and  suggestive,  nor  altogether  lacking  in  the 
veritable  substance  of  romance.  And  for  ten  minutes,  or 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  it  is  as  if  all  the  world  and  his  wife 
and  his  daughters,  his  sisters  and  his  cousins  and  his 
aunts,  drove  past  you. 

"  An  almighty  heap  of  fast  freight  there,"  savs,  with 
strident  laugh,  a  man  from  the  wild  and  woolly  West, 
who  stands  on  the  kerb  near  you,  and  who  puts  tons  of 
emphasis  on  the  word  fast.  But  he  is  wrong — that  is. 
mostly  wrong.  Doubtless  the  Other  Man's  Wife  (to  say 
nothing  of  his  Mistress)  has  some  part  in  the  moving 
Show,  but,  speaking  generally,  nearly  all  of 
those  you  have  seen  are  entered  for  the  safe,  if  c  .Tas' 

J  '  freight. 

not  particularly  exciting,  "  flat-race"  event 
known  as  the  Family  Plate.  As  you  gently  insinuate  this, 
or  words  to  the  like  effect,  into  the  disappointed  ear  of  the 
dry-goods  merchant  from  Julienne  City,  who  is  on  the 
outlook  for  "  something  saucy."  you  note  that  the  racing 
tide  of  life  at  length  reaches  the  slack;   the  crowd  begins 


12  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

to  thin :  the  jar  and  rattle  of  the  'buses  once  more  pre- 
dominate, save  when  a  noisome  motor  dashes  by  with 
hideous  roar,  or  when  the  blind  beggar  aforesaid,  start- 
ing on  a  fresh  round  of  imprecation,  again  makes  violent 
jabs  at  your  boots. 

The  curtain  comes  down,  and  you  naturally  think 
of  refreshment.  You  stroll  across  the  Circus  to  a 
'  Lounge,"  walk  up  a  flight  of  stairs,  take  a  seat,  and 
call  for  a  lemon  squash.  A  lemon  squash  gives  you 
away,  as  it  were,  and  several  young  ladies  sitting  about 
the  room,  who  had  watched  your  entrance  with  curiosity, 
now  cease  to  regard  you  with  any  interest  whatsoever. 
You  are  not  worth}-  of  their  powder  and  paint. 
"Lounge."  ^ou  §"aze  (>n  them  and  their  male  companions 
— though  it  is  well  to  be  careful  how  you  do 
it.  The  women,  von  cannot  fail  to  see,  are  young-  women 
of  the  town  having  drinks  (mostly  whiskies  and  sodas) 
with  young  men  who  are  bent  on  seeing  "life";  the 
women  smile  on  the  men,  and  smile  on  each  other;  in 
some  sort  they  are  all  evidently  having  a  good  time.  The 
scene  on  the  whole  is  gav  and  bright — there  is  nothing 
on  the  surface  that  is  squalid  or  badly  out  of  repair.  All 
is  respectable — within  the  meaning  of  the  Act,  as  you 
might  say.  You  notice  this,  and  then  you  remember  to 
have  seen  a  colossal  chucker-out  at  the  door,  and  you  ask 
what  is  he  doing  in  this  galley  ?  Goto!  (Mem.  It  is  bet- 
ter to  go  two,  or  even  three,  in  the  Circus  than  go  alone). 


PICCADILLY    CIRCUS 


13 


Tiring  of  the  "  Lounge,"  you  emerge  into  the  Circus 
again.  And  now  you  take  the  rest  of  the  Show  in  a  series 
of  tableaux,   and  you  begin   with  a  cafe,  the  name  of 


PFZ9.  %0^ 


A    GAY    LITTLE  JAP. 

which,  so  far  as  the  sound  of  it  is  concerned,  recalls  the 
pleasing  legend  of  the  Man  who  Broke  the  Bank  at  Monte 
Carlo.     Just  outside  its  vestibule — that  giving 

.,/-..  -11  r  Tableau 

on  the   Circus — you   will   see  a   row  01   men  No  , 

(most     of    them     foreigners)     staring     with 
bulging  gooseberry  eyes  at  the  French  demoiselles,  whose 
main  camping-ground  is  the  Colonnade  of  Regent  Street ; 


i4  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

the  same  men,  or  their  doubles,  seem  to  stand  there  every 
evening,  though  this  can  scarcely  be  the  case — the  wonder 
is  they  don't  catch  something"  and  "  quit."  Within  the 
cafe,  as  you  enter,  is  a  picturesque  (literally  picturesque) 
little  shop,  where  of  foreign  newspapers  you  may  have 
what  you  please,  m'sieu  !"  Still  further  within,  you  may 
have  what  you  please;  you  may  call  for  what  you  like — 
if  you  have  the  price.  You  quickly  see  that  though  the 
whole  atmosphere  of  the  place  is  foreign,  vet  the  brutal 
custom  of  exacting  payment  for  everything  you  receive 
is  rigidly  insisted  on  with  true  British  bull-dog 
pertinacity.  Having  mastered  this  stubborn  fact,  you 
perhaps  descend  into  the  grill-room,  where  by  way  of 
whetting  your  appetite  you  may  perchance  see  a  gay  little 
Jap  (four  foot  six)  following  two  pavement-ladies  (each 
five  foot  eight)  down  to  supper.  At  the  same  time  you 
will  notice,  if  your  taste  lies  that  way,  the  wall  decora- 
tions of  the  place;   they  are  well  done. 

Having  exhausted  the  attractions  of  this  cafe,  you  may 
now  step  across  the  road  into  Glasshouse  Street,  and 
enter  another  cafe,  which  rejoices  in  a  Latin  name,  and 
which  is  even  more  determinedly  foreign  than  the  one 
you  have  just  left.  Here,  you  will  unques- 
N*  2e'u  tionably  imagine,  you  have  transported  your- 

self into  a  German  beer-garden.  The  major- 
it}-  of  its  frequenters,  you  will  see.  appear  to  hail  from  the 
Vaterland,  and  you  note  that  their  glasses,  like  their  bev- 


PICCADILLY    CIRCUS  15 

eraees,  have  been  made  in  Germany.  Here  there  are  not 
many  women,  but  such  as  are  are  not  English ;  indeed, 
by  this  time  you  understand  that  the  night  centre  of  Lon- 
don is  cosmopolitan.  Before  you  leave  this  cafe  you 
must  not  fail  to  look  at  the  mural  paintings  and  other 
pictures  which  adorn  the  room — two  of  them  at  least  are 
far  above  the  average. 

From  Glasshouse  Street  you  pass  into  Regent  Street, 
and  walking  down  its  east  side  towards  the  Colonnade 
you  may  halt,  and  take  a  peep  into  more  cafes  and  res- 
taurants. If  they  are  well  filled,  and  you  keep  your  eyes 
wide  open,  you  may  add  several  points  even  to  the  liberal 
education  which  you  are  already  getting.  In  the  Colon- 
nade itself  you  will  encounter  the  peripatetic  foreign 
colony  of  ladies  who  make  this  their  rendezvous,  and  turn 
it  into  what  Mr.  Hichens  calls,  justly  enough, 
a  "  sordid  boulevard."     The  French  spoken  in  tableau^ 

this  quarter,  he  tells  us,  is  the  French  of  Belle- 
ville, and  you  may  take  his  word  for  it,  and  so  save  your- 
self much  unnecessary  trouble  and  expense;  the  acquisi- 
tion of  a  language,  it  is  conceivable,  may  be  bought  at 
too  high  a  price.  Comprenez,  m'sieu?  You  shrug  your 
shoulders,  smile,  and  cross  over  to  the  other  side  of 
Regent  Street. 

You  now  reach  the  spot  from  which,  half  an  hour  ago, 
you  viewed  the  great  whirring  procession  of  cabs  and 
carriages  coming  away  from  the  theatres ;   it  is  compara- 


16  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

tivelv  quiet.  The  rush  for  the  last  'bus,  or  the  dub-a-dub, 
dub-a-dub  of  a  whirling  hansom,  may  make  a  temporary 
disturbance,  but  the  Circus,  though  there  are  still  plenty 
of  human  bats  about,  is  veiled  in  a  discreet  silence.  You 
pause  for  a  moment,  and  then  you  stroll  up  the  west  side 
of  Regent  Street.  You  have  perhaps  gone  a  hundred 
yards  or  so  when  a  party  of  four  or  five  young  "  bloods," 

bent  on  carrying  out  their  idea  of  a  frolic, 
tableaux  march  past  you   arm-in-arm.   and  proceed  to 

hustle  the  chucker-out  at  the  back  door  of 
'Jimmy's"  —  that  individual  (the  chucker-out,  not 
"  Jimmy,"  as  the  uninitiated  might  suppose)  trying  to 
bar  their  entrance.  You  are  almost  caught  in  the  rush 
of  these  young  heroes,  but  manage  to  make  your  escape ; 
you  see,  however,  these  daring  fellows  (  five  to  one)  carry 
all  {i.e.,  the  chucker-out)  before  them  and  disappear  into 
the  interior.  You  do  not  attempt  to  follow  them ;  you 
wonder  vaguely  what  has  happened  to  the  gallant  defen- 
der of  the  door,  but  presently  he  turns  up  smiling,  and 
you  understand  that  the  incident,  if  not  the  door,  is 
closed.  And  now  you  leisurely  go  round  by  a  side-street 
which  will  take  you  into  Piccadilly  not  far  from  the  front 
of  'Jimmy's."  And  as  you  are  on  your  way  it  may 
chance  that  you  will  espy  (good  old  word — espy!)  but  a 
short  distance  from  Vine  Street  police-station  a  police- 
man or  two  affably  passing  the  time  of  night  with  some 
of  the  Daughters  of  the  Circus.     But  don't  mistake  what 


PICCADILLY    CIRCUS  17 

this  means.  The  London  police  are  not  bad  men,  and  in 
their  hearts  is  a  good  deal  of  pity,  and  sympathy  too,  for 
these  poor  creatures  of  the  Half-World,  the  wretched  and 
miserable  outcasts  of  society,  and,  in  a  measure,  its 
victims. 

It  is  now  midnight,  and  a  church  bell  booms  out  the 
hour.  You  are  back  again  in  Piccadilly,  and  its  northern 
pavement  is  filled  with  men  and  women,  mostly  women, 
tramping  up  and  down ;  there  are  fewer  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street.  In  the  middle  of  the  thoroughfare  is  a  long 
line  of  cabs — why  so  many?  you  ask,  forgetting  for  a 
second  that  here  is  the  night  centre  of  the  greatest  city 
the  world  has  ever  seen.  You  move  with  the  crowd  ;  you 
may  be  in  it,  not  of  it.  but  the  mere  fact  that  you  are  there 
subjects  you  to  incessant  solicitations;  you  are  addressed 
as  "darling,"  'sweetheart" — what  not?  Your  ears  are 
deaf,  and  you  take  a  look  into  "Jimmy's";  you  walk 
through  the  grill-room  and  pass  into  the  dining-room, 
both  full  of  people,  again  mostly  women,  who,  you  ob- 
serve are  nearly  all  in  evening  dress,  presenting  a  gen- 
erous display  of  their  charms.  Here  is  the  chiefest  temple 
of  the  demi-monde.  So  long  as  a  member  of 
the  scarlet  sisterhood  can  put  in  an  appearance  tableau^ 

at  "  Jimmy's"  she  fancies  she  is  not  wholly  a 
failure!!!!     Once  upon  a  time  (as  you  may  know  if  you 
have  read  Fielding  or  Smollett  or  seen  the  cartoons  of 
Hogarth)  the  ghastly  pilgrimage  of  the  Woman  of  the 


i8 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


on 

the; 

prowl. 


Town  was  from  St.  James's  to  Drury  Lane;  now  it  is 
from  "Jimmy's"  to  Waterloo  Road — to  which  the  river 
by   way   of   Waterloo   Bridge   is   horribly,    suggestively 

hand}'.  Well,  as  you 
look  on  at  "  Jimmy's," 
other  men,  you  cannot 
but  notice,  come  in 
just  as  you  have  done, 
and  stare,  and  stare, 
and  stare.  The  dry- 
goods  merchant  from 
Julienne  City,  whom 
you  have  met  before, 
askscoarselv,  "  What's 
in  the  cowshed  to- 
night?" And  you  turn 
and  flee!  You  feel, 
being  honest,  you  are 
something  of  a  hypo- 
crite, but  you  get  out 
into  the  street  again. 


Xow  you  take  time 
to  classify  these  night- 
walkers  of  the  Circus  into  types.  Here,  strangest  type  of 
all,  is  a  bent,  battered,  tattered  figure  restlessly  pacing  up 
and  down  the  kerb;  from  one  side  of  the  street  to  the 
other  he  goes,  his  eyes  ever  fixed  upon  the  ground.     He 


.  i? 


PICCADILLY    CIRCUS  19 

is  a  Picker-up  of  Unconsidered  Trifles,  the  end  of  a 
cigarette,  the  stubb  of  a  cigar,  a  pin  (if  it  be  jewelled  so 
much  the  better),  anything.  He  makes  some  sort  of 
living  ont  of  it,  otherwise  he  would  not  be  here.  He  only 
appears  late  at  night,  but  every  night — a  kind  of  Wander- 
ing Jew  you  might  think  him  from  his  form  and  dress — ■ 
you  can  see  him  on  his  beat.  Where  does  he  come  from? 
Whither  does  he  go?  Here  is  a  poor,  old,  wretched, 
squalid  woman  selling  matches ;  She  thrusts  a  box  into 
your  hand,  and  her  haggard  eyes  beseech  you.  Once,  like 
her  sisters  of  the  Fountain,  she  too  may  have  been — quite 
so.  And  the  L  nfortunates — the  "  bedizened  women  of 
the  pavements,"  as  Stevenson  called  them,  or,  to  quote 
again  from  Mr.  Hichens,  the  '  wandering  wisps  of 
painted  humanity  that  dye  the  London  night  with 
rouge" !  On  this  lovely  summer  night  they  flaunt  them- 
selves in  all  their  bravery ;  the  majority  of  them,  indeed, 
are   not   badly   dressed,    nor   are   all   painted. 

Some 

Some   of   them    are    foreigners,   but    most   of         figures  in 

the  Show. 

them  are  unmistakably  English.  Some  have 
bold  eyes,  some  have  not.  They  seem  sober — every  one. 
But  what  a  number  of  them !  And  all  sorts  and  sizes,  so 
to  say ;  young,  middle-aged ;  thin,  stout ;  short,  tall ; 
Jenny  "  fond  of  a  kiss  and  fond  of  a  guinea" — that  ne'er- 
do-weel  type  too,  but  all  the  types  seem  to  be  here.  You 
look  into  their  faces,  and  there  is  a  story  in  every  face,  if 
you  could  but  read  it.     And  such  stories !     Ah,  if  the 


20 


THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


stones  on  which  they  tread  could  speak !  They  can  hardly 
be  beautiful  stories;  they  might  well  be  terrible.  And  the 
men?  They  also  are  a  mixture,  nor  are  they  all  young-. 
You  can  tell  at  a  glance  that  not  many  of  them  are  citi- 


"  JIMMY'S,"  12.30  A.M. 

zens  of  London,  and  not  a  few  of  them  are  here  from 
sheer  curiosity;  the}-  have  come  for  the  most  part  to  see 
the  Show. 

About  twenty  minutes  past  twelve  you  notice  a  singu- 
lar movement  in  the  street ;   it  sets  in  towards  "  Jimmy's" 


PICCADILLY    CIRCUS  21 

and  stops  there.  You  go  with  it,  and  find  yourself  again 
in  front  of  the  place.  And  the  very  first  thing  you  see  is 
that  a  couple  of  policemen  (one  of  them  a  sergeant  or  a 
superintendent)  are  on  guard  a  few  feet  from  the  door. 
Slowly  people  emerge  in  pairs  from  the  restaurant,  and 
drive  away  in  cabs  to  parts  of  the  town  which  have,  like 
their  inhabitants,  "  lost  their  Sunday-school  certificates." 
And  about  half-past  twelve  a  crowd  of  demi-mondaines 
and  men  pours  forth,  but  by  this  time  there  are  four 
policemen  outside  the  door,  standing  there  to  preserve 
order.  Four  policemen  !  ( Is  there  such  another  sight  to 
be  seen  night  after  night  in  any  other  spot  on  the  globe?) 
Hansoms  dash  up,  and  the  porter  helps  the  Faustines, 
who  climb  into  them,  with  as  much  care  as  if  they  were 
duchesses.  Others  vanish  into  the  night,  while  a  larger 
number  are  swallowed  up  in  the  throng  of 
street-walkers,  who  for  another  hour  or  so  will 

end. 

figure  in  the  piteous  Struggle  of  the  Circus — 

the  Battle  of  the  Street,  finishing  up,  perhaps,  at  some 

night-club,  or  in  some  other  den.     Some  go  "  home"! 

There  you  have  it  all. 

Heaven  knows  it  ill  becomes  any  of  us  to  preach,  so 
down  with  the  curtain,  put  out  the  lights — 

';  The  wise  and  the  silly, 
Old  P.  or  Old  Q.,  we  must  leave  Piccadilly." 


CHAPTER    II 

IN    THE    STREETS 
"  Hell  was  a  place  very  like  London." 

London  by  day,  it  will  be  generally  conceded,  presents 
what  in  its  own  way  is  the  most  imposing  and  wonderful 
spectacle  in  the  world.  As  a  "  sight"  there  is  nothing  to 
approach  it — Paris,  New  York,  or  any  other  city,  not 
excepted.  But  it  may  be  questioned  if  London  by  Night, 
for  sheer,  downright  impressiveness,  does  not  seize  upon, 
grip  and  hold  you,  as  even  London  by  Day  does  not. 
From  midnight  till  about  two  o'clock  in  the 
siienwT*  morning  the  streets  gradually  show  fewer  and 

fewer  signs  of  life  and  movement.  From  two 
o'clock  to  four  there  is  a  lull,  a  quiet,  a  hush,  a  vast  en- 
folding, mysterious,  awe-inspiring  silence.  It  is  as  if  the 
tide  had  gone  out  into  the  far  distance,  leaving  the  shore 
lonely  as  a  maid  forsaken,  still  as  pillars  of  stone,  but 
portentous,  majestic,  and  strangely  solemn  withal. 

The  city  sleeps  ! 

London,  taken  "  by  and  large,"  is  abed  and  wears  the 
night-cap.  Husbands  lie  beside  their  wives — in  some 
eases,  it  may  perhaps  be,  beside  the  wives  of  others,  for 
this  great  old  London  is  no  Puritan,  but  is  a  mixture,  a 

22 


IN    THE    STREETS  23 

ferment,  in  which  is  everything  good,  and  bad,  and  indif- 
ferent, and — human.     In  this  profound  stillness  of  the 
night  young  men  and  maidens  dream  happy  dreams  and 
see   bright,    beguiling   visions — or    ought    to! 
Dear  little  children,  their  small  distresses  for-  s°"e°" 

gotten,  their  petty  naughtinesses  forgiven, 
slumber  sweetly  in  a  thousand  thousand  peaceful  homes. 
But  not  all  London  sleeps.  In  twenty  great  newspaper 
offices,  editors,  leader-writers,  reporters,  and  compositors 
are  at  work,  amidst  the  buzz  and  bur-r-r  of  the  printing- 
presses.  At  the  big  railway  centres,  both  for  passengers 
and  "  goods"  there  is  activity,  though  of  a  quieter  sort 
than  that  which  prevails  by  day.  The  clubs,  both  high- 
class  and  no-class,  are  not  all  closed;  the  no-class  clubs 
are  at  their  best — or  rather,  far  rather,  at  their  worst. 
The  thief,  the  burglar,  the  prowler,  the  prostitute — they, 
certainly,  are  not  all  asleep.  Nay,  you  can  spy  them 
standing,  watching,  waiting  in  dark  corners. 

After  four  o'clock  the  city  begins  to  awake,  and  the 
great  silence,  which  has  wrapped  it  round  like  a  garment, 
is  gone — swiftly  swallowed  up  in  the  roar  of  the  streets, 
growing  and  swelling  even  as  the  day  and  its  business 
grows  and  swells.  The  Night  Side  of  London  has  disap- 
peared— it  is  as  if  it  had  never  been;  but  the  following 
evening  it  will  be  repeated,  and  on  the  same  gigantic  scale. 

What  of  the  streets,  then,  from  twelve  to  four? 

Shortly  after  midnight  all  the  public-houses  are  shut 


24  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

up — some  of  the  best  of  them  by  eleven,  others  at  twelve 
sharp,  but  most  stay  open  till  half-past  twelve.  With  the 
cry  "  Time,  time!"  the  barmen  turn  the  lights  clown  and 
the  people  out.  All  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and 
women    (particularly  men   in  a  certain  condition)    now 

gather  in  groups  in  front  of  the  "  pubs,"  in  the 
close  P"  S       windows  of  which  there  still  burns  a  light  or 

two,  and  from  behind  whose  walls  the  chinck 
of  money  being  counted  may  be  heard.  If  you  look  at 
these  men  and  women  you  will  see  that  they  are  for  the 
most  part  more  or  less  hardened  citizens — criminals  of 
both  sexes  ;  the  broken  man,  the  lost  woman,  the  drift  and 
wreck  of  humanity.  A  few  are  respectable  people,  but 
their  proportion  to  the  rest  is  small. 

From  twelve  to  two  many  cabs  still  flash  past  with 
their  freightage  or  crawl  along  in  search  of  fares.  In  the 
Circuses  and  other  central  places  you  can  see  eyes  of 
green  and  red,  as  it  were,  gleaming  at  you  from  the  still 
long  ranks  of  hansoms.  Heavy  wagons  also  toil  labori- 
ously on  to  Covent  Garden  and  the  other  large  markets 

which  feed  this  great  hungry  giant  of  a  town. 
open  sky."6      On  tne  pavements  men  and  women  walk,  some 

quickly  and  purposefully,  for  they  are  going 
home,  while  others  loaf,  lounge,  or  limp  about — home 
they  have  none;  it  is  a  word  which  has  no  meaning  for 
them.  These  are  they  who  dwell  in  the  Hotel  of  the 
Beautiful  Star,  as  the  French  call  it,  or,  locally  translated. 


IN    THE    STREETS  25 

the  benches  and  flagstones  of  the  Thames  Embankment, 
Trafalgar  Square,  or  a  place  of  the  same  kind.  On  warm, 
dry  nights  these  resting-places  can  hardly  be  termed  ideal, 
but  how  about  them  when  the  rain  pours  down  or  in  the 
cold  of  winter? 

Here  is  Trafalgar  Square,  in  the  midst  of  which  stands 


AN  OI  D   Ol.n  WOMAN. 


the  splendid  column  reared  to  the  memory  of  Nelson. 
On  its  northern  side,  opposite  it,  is  the  National  Gallery. 
This  is  the  same  thing  as  saying  that  the  Square  is  full 
of  associations  of  heroism  and  great  deeds  on  the  one 
hand,  and  on  the  other  of  the  delight,  the  beauty,  the 


26  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF  -  LONDON 

power  and  the  glory  of  Art.  Now  look  at  the  row  of 
benches,  some  four  or  five  in  number,  placed  on  an  ele- 
vated part  of  the  Square,  almost  exactly  between  Nel- 
son's  Column  and  the  National  Gallery.  On  every  one 
of  these  benches  are  seated  people  who  will  spend  the 
night   there,   and  in  the  light  of  the  electric 

Trafalgar 

Bqua  lamps  von  can  see  them  pretty  well.     Take  the 

1  A.M. 

first  bench,  and  you  start  back,  a  gripping  pity 
in  y<  iur  heart,  for  the  chief  figure  you  discern  is  an  old  old 
woman,  and  her  hair  is  silver  white.  Her  poor,  dim,  old 
eyes  are  closed,  the  poor  old  frame  is  bent  and  huddled 
up  on  the  bench,  the  poor  old  feet,  which  have  taken  her 
here  after  straying  through  unimaginable  highways  and 
byways  of  life,  are  drawn  together  in  an  attitude  of 
weariness  past  all  words  to  describe.  Near  her  are  two 
men:  one  looks  as  if  he  might  be  a  mechanic  who  has 
fallen  on  evil  times,  the  other  is  a  night-hawk,  resting 
before  he  swoops  down  on  such  prey  as  may  come  his 
way.     '  )n  the  other  benches  are  men,  women,  bovs,  girls 

the  waifs  and  straws  of  London — though  this  is  too 
mild  a  way  t< i  put  it. 

Bui  enough  of  this. 

The  mosl  prominent  features  of  the  Night  Side  of  the 
London  sheets  are  the  coffee-stalls,  the  hot  potato-cans, 
and  the  whelk-counters,  which  afford  refreshment,  and 
entertainment  too,  during  the  hours  of  dark.  And  if  you 
will  make  a  round  of  the  streets,  say  on  a  cycle,  you  will 


IN    THE    STREETS 


27 


be  able  to  form  a  good  idea  of  the  town — at  least,  from 

the  outside,   if  you  will  proceed  in  a  leisurely  fashion, 

stopping  now  and  again  for  a  look  round  and  a 

chat  with  a  coffee-stall  keeper  or  other  pro-       H,(^J 

vider  for  the  Children  of  the  Night.     Suppose 

you  select  a  route.     Start  from  Hyde  Park  Corner  about 

midnight,  but  before  you  set  off  have  a  talk  and  a  cup  of 


coffee  at  the  stall  which  you  will  notice  hard  by  one  of  the 
gates.  Let  us  say  that  two  policemen,  evidently  on  the 
best  of  terms  with  each  other  and  the  coffee-stall  man, 
are  within  a  few  feet  of  you,  and  you  can  hear  what  they 
are  saying.     One  of  them  has  just  had  an  adventure  with 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

a  refractory  individual.     "  'E  didn't  know  wot  'e  wanted 

—didn't   nohow — 'cept   he   wanted   a   row — 'e   wos   jes' 

spoilin'   fur  a  fight — 'e  didn't  mind  'oo  it  was  with,  or 

wot    it   wur   fur.      'E  jes'    wanted   trouble — 'e   wur   out 

lookin'  fur  it.  'e  wur.     'E  wurn't  goin'  to  move  on,  not 

'e.     W'v  should  'e?     An'  'e  gave  me  some  more  o'  'is 

lip.     Part  I  moved  'im  on  !"    And  the  two  constables  laugh 

and   chuckle.      While  you   drink   your   cup   of   coffee   a 

guardsman  comes  up — why  so  late?    you  wonder;    and 

then  another  man,  who  looks  like  an  ex-guardsman,  and 

has  come  to  revisit  his  old  familiar  haunts,  joins  him. 

'  Packet    o'    woodbines,    George,"    says    the    last-comer. 

'Ave  a  cup  of  corfe,  Bill?"      '  Ell  tike  a  piece  o'  kike, 

if   you    like.    Tom."         Yes,    a   piece  o'   kike,    George." 

There!"       '  Wot's  up?"       '  I   ain't  got   no  kike — sold 

out  early  ;    there  ain't  none  left !     Been  awful  busy  right 

along!"        Yes?"      '  All  the  kike,  s'elp  me,  went  'arf  an 

In  lur  agi  i !" 

And  now  you  do  make  a  start  on  your  round,  which, 
let  us  say.  to  night  will  be  something  like  this — 

From  Hyde  Park  Corner  you  run  along  Piccadilly  to 
tlie  Circus — you  have  already  seen  such  sights  as  are  to 
be  viewed  in  this  famous  part  of  the  town,  so  you  do  not 
linger  there.  You  move  up  Regent  Street  to  Oxford 
i  ircus,  and  here  you  will  see  a  scene  not  very  dissimilar 
to  that  of  the  Circus  at  the  other  end,  though  it  is  on  a 
decidedly  smaller  scale.     You  will  probably  also  observe 


IN    THE    STREETS  31 

that  the  Women  of  the  Town  who  frequent  the  spot  are 
of  a  lower  type.  Suppose  you  now  cycle  along  Oxford 
Street,  past  Tottenham  Court  Roach  along  New  Oxford 
Street,  say  as  far  as  the  corner  where  is  Mudie's  well- 
known  library.  Almost  opposite  the  last-named  is  a  coffee- 
stall  (p.  29),  and  about  it  there  are  some  fifteen  or  twenty 
persons.  It  is  worth  your  while  to  dismount  and  add 
yourself  to  their  number  for  a  few  minutes. 
It  is  a  typical  coffee-stall,  and  the  crowd  about  coffeeTtaU. 
it  is  typical  too.  There  is  something  Parisian 
about  the  scene,  but  this  is  because  there  are  some  trees 
in  the  background,  which  the  darkness  appears  to  mul- 
tiply, and  to  give  the  place  something  of  the  character  of 
the  Boulevards.  Near  by  is  a  cabstand,  and  the  cabbies 
patronise  the  stall,  which  is  kept  by  a  bright  young  fellow 
who  has  a  pleasant,  cheery,  smiling  way  with  him.  His 
customers  chaff  him,  and  he  pays  them  back  in  their  own 
coin,  adding  sufficient  interest  the  while.  He  seems  to 
know  most  of  his  customers  pretty  well,  addressing  the 
majority  of  them  by  their  Christian  names — "Jim," 
'  Molly,"    '  Sally,"    '  Kate,"  "  Peter,"  and  so  on. 

The  patrons  of  the  coffee-stall  are  "  warious."  At  the 
side  next  the  street  stand  two  young  women,  both  well 
dressed,  one  of  them  almost  elegantly.  She  is  the  better 
looking  of  the  two,  and  you  naturally  take  a  good  look  at 
her  first  of  all.  You  see  she  is  rather  pretty,  and  has  once 
been  prettier.    You  know  what  she  is,  or  if  you  don't,  you 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

do  not  need  to  be  told.  She  has  been  walking  the  streets 
fi  ir  the  past  two  or  three  hours,  and  what  she  would  call 
"business"  has  been  bad.  She  is  going  home  alone — 
which  is  not  what  she  had  intended!  The  young  lady  to 
win  mi  she  talks  has  met  with  a  similar  experience,  and 
the  two  exchange  their  dreary  confidences.  They  speak 
in  a  low  tone,  however,  and  you  cannot  hear 
what  they  say.  They  soon  stop  talking  alto- 
gether to  listen  to  the  chaff  passing  between 
the  coffee-stall  keeper  and  a  "  cabby"  who  has  just  driven 
up.  Xext  to  the  two  women  there  are  lounging  on  the 
kerb  four  or  five  young  men — they  are  hardly  men,  for 
they  are  really  lads — who'se  ages  run  from  eighteen  to 
twenty-three,  or  thereabouts.  Thev  have  either  had  their 
coffee  or  they  are  not  *'  taking  any."  Perhaps  they  have 
not  the  price.  They  stand  silently  by,  smoking  cigarettes, 
whose  odour  is  not  exactly  that  of  the  Spicy  Isles.  Thev 
keep  one  eye,  so  to  speak,  on  the  two  young  women,  and 
with  the  other  thev  take  in  the  rest  of  the  crowd.  One 
wonders  why  in  the  world  they  are  not  in  bed.  From 
their  appearance  they  belong  to  a  class  which  should  be 
'  respectable."  It  may  be  that  they  are  young  graduates 
in  the  school  of  crime — there  is  declared  to  be  an  intimate 
connection  in  these  days,  or  is  it  nights?  between  coffee- 
stalls  and  ciinic — but.  if  so,  the  lads  cannot  be  said  to 
have  the  hardened,  battered  aspect  which  is  generallv 
considered  to  belong  to  the  habitual  criminal.     Perhaps 


IN    THE    STREETS  33 

they  are  only  beginners,  and,  certainly,  it  would  be  better 
for  them,  and  for  everybody,  if  the}-  were  in  bed.  For, 
almost  cheek  by  jowl  with  them,  you  see  two  other  young 
fellows,  and  what  they  are  is  written  large  upon  them. 
Thev    are    "  Hooligans."      And    the     '  Hooli- 

"  Hooligans.'' 

gans"  are  a  curse,  and  a  pest,  and  an  alto- 
gether damnable  feature  of  London  life  at  the  present 
time.  The  evenings  and  the  nights  are  of  course  fullest 
of  opportunities  for  them,  and  you  may  begin  to  fear,  as 
you  see  more  of  them  at  other  coffee-stalls  in  the  course 
of  your  ride,  that  they  are  a  numerous  class.  At  least, 
you  can  safely  surmise  that  it  is  no  good  thing  for  those 
respectable-looking  young  lads  to  be  within  close  touch 
of  their  society.  The  "  Hooligans"  at  the  stall  absorb 
into  their  systems  a  couple  of  hard-boiled  eggs,  eat  a 
piece  of  cake,  and  drink  a  cup  of  coffee  each,  cursing  very 
audibly  as  they  consume  the  food.  The  meal  finished, 
they  light  cigarettes,  look  round  as  if  they  were  specu- 
lating whether  there  was  any  opening  for  them  in  the 
crowd,  and,  seeing  none,  they  slouch  away  into  the  dark- 
ness. 

A  little  bit  back  from  the  stall  are  a  couple — a  man  and 
a  woman,  both  somewhat  intoxicated,  the  woman  more 
so  than  the  man.  Indeed,  she  is  inclined  to  be  maudlin 
and  to  babble — but  not  "  o'  green  fields."  The  man  is 
trying  to  reason  with  her,  perhaps  to  get  her  to  go  home, 
but  she  maintains   she    '  won't  go  home  till   mornin'." 


34 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


The  tableau  they  present  is  half  comical,  half  disgusting. 
The  lady  always  lias  the  last  word  in  each  argument,  and 
when  you  leave  you  observe  that  she  persists  in  the 
statement  of  her  continued  determination  not  to  move 
from  the  spot.     You  think  it  altogether  likely  that  she  will 

not  go  home  till  morn- 
ing. Leaning  on  the 
counter  of  the  stall, 
their  cups  in  front  of 
them,  are  a  pair  of 
Jarvies,  otherwise  cab- 
drivers.  '  Got  one  o' 
them  stone  bullets  o' 
yours?"  asks  cabby 
number  one  of  the 
stall-keeper.  "  What  do 
you  mean  with  vour 
stone  bullets?"  retorts 
the  keeper.  "  Ain't  got 
no  stone  bullets  here. 
Don't  keep  'em.  What  d'ye  want  'em  for?  to  ball  up 
yer  'osses'  feet?"  "  Wol  you  givin'  us?  Ain't  'e  saucy. 
Bill?  says  he  facetiously,  turning  to  his  pal. 
'  Wy,  if  those  heggs  o'  'is  ain't  stone  bullets, 
strike  me  dead.  'Ere,  give  us  a  couple  o'  'ard- 
boiled,  and  look  lively.  We  ain't  goin'  to  spend  the 
bloomin'   night    'ere.      So,   go  along!"     "'Ave  you   got 


TRYING    TO    REASON   WITH    HER. 


n  ird 
boiled.' 


IN    THE    STREETS  35 

such  a  thing  as  a  '  doorstep'  ?  If  so,  I  can  do  with  a  'ole 
staircase  o'  'em,"  cried  the  other  cabby.  '  Yon  ain't 
'ungrv,  are  yer,  Alike?"  'Ungry  ain't  the  word." 
Presently  the  cabbies  are  served,  and  retire  munching 
into  the  background. 

Here,  a  few  paces  from  the  stall  is  a  drinking-fountain, 
and  about  it  is  a  group  of  three  or  four  workmen — as 
you  can  tell  from  the  way  in  which  they  are  dressed. 
They  have  come  to  the  stall  strictly  on  business,  that  is, 
for  much-needed  refreshment.  Perhaps,  of  all  those  you 
see  here,  they  have  the  most  legitimate  claim  on  the  coffee- 
stall.  They  are  night  workers,  and  have  every  right  to 
have  their  wants  satisfied.  While  you  are  looking  at 
them  two  new  arrivals  come  upon  the  scene,  a  man 
and  a  woman — these  night  birds,  you  will  per- 

Night  birds. 

ceive,  go  about  most  frequently  in  pairs.  The 
man's  face  is  red,  pimply,  unwholesome,  suggestive  as  it 
can  be  of  an  ardent  devotion  to  Bacchus,  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  his  companion  is  a  quiet,  well-dressed,  well-be- 
haved, decent-looking  person.  Their  story  seems  to  be 
simple.  If  one  reads  it  aright,  it  is  a  case  of  the  woman 
trying  hard  to  reform  a  drunken  husband.  Still,  the 
man's  air  is  jaunty ;  it  is  the  woman's  which  is  humble 
and  depressed.  It  is  she,  however,  who  goes  up  to  the 
stall,  and  buys  coffee  for  two  and  biscuits.  And  now  a 
woman,  who  is  almost  crazy  with  drink,  and  who  reels 
out  the  most  frightful  blasphemies,  comes  shuffling  and 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

staeeerine  to  the  stall.  A  policeman,  who  has  all  the 
ne  been  watching  the  group  from  across  the  road, 
inakc>  a  move  forward,  and  then,  thinking  better  of  it, 
stands  still,  waiting  to  see  what  will  happen.  But  noth- 
ing happens.  The  woman  goes  off  again  into  the  night, 
leaving  behind  her.  as  it  were,  a  lurid  trail  of  evil-sound- 
ing \\<  irds. 

All  this  you  have  seen  in  ten  minutes  or  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  It  may  be  that  you  have  seen  enough,  but  in 
any  case  you  must  ere  this  have  finished  your  coffee.  So 
you  again  mt  .tint  your  wheel,  and  ride  off  on  your  expe- 
dition. You  now  travel  a  short  way  back  until  you  arrive 
at  the  corner  of  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and  as  you  pass 
along  this  thoroughfare  you  will  see  several  coffee-stalls 
and  at  least  one  whelk-counter  and  a  peripatetic  hot- 
potato  can  man.  At  none  of  the  coffee-stalls  do  you  re- 
mark a  considerable  number  of  people;  most  of  them 
have  at  best  only  two  or  three  customers.  The  purvevor 
->l  whelks  is  not  patronised  at  all.  The  potato-can  man 
is  also  solitary,  but  his  time  will  come  in  the  cold  early 
hours  of  the  dawning  day.  Some  other  night  the  case 
may  be  quite  different,  but  to-night  the  street  is  rather 
So  you  go  on  your  way.  and  in  another  minute 
or  two  you  are  in  Euston  Road,  a  street  which  has  about 
;  malodorous  a  reputation  as  any  in  London,  particu- 
•  with  regard  to  its  Night  Side.  Yet  a  short  distance 
from    Euston    Station    you   come   upon   as   handsome   a 


IN    THE    STREETS  37 

coffee-stall  as  any  you  will  see  in  your  journey,  and  you 
jump  off  and  take  a  good  look  at  it.  The  first  thing  you 
will  notice  is  that  in  front  of  it  is  a  carpet  formed  of 
broken  egg-shells,  and  you  perhaps  begin  your  conversa- 
tion with  the  keeper  by  referring  to  this  circumstance. 
You  compliment  him  on  the  fine  appearance  of  his  place 
of  business — you  observe  that  the  stall  is  freshly  painted 
and  well  appointed.  On  one  side  of  it,  in  large  letters,  is 
the  legend  "'  Al  Fresco."     He  tells  you  that 

"  Al  Fresco." 

his  stall  cost  a  hundred  pounds,  and  it  is  quite 
evident  that  he  is  proud  of  it.  He  tells  you  also  that  this 
is  a  quiet  time  of  the  night  with  him,  and  that  he  won't 
be  really  busy  again  until  about  four  o'clock.  He  is  dis- 
posed to  chat,  and  he  maintains  that  he  is  all  in  favour  of 
the  crusade  against  coffee-stalls  as  they  are  at  present. 
;  They  should  be  licensed,"  said  he,  "  and  then  we'd  hear 
no  more  about  the  connection  between  coffee-stalls  and 
crime.  I  think  Mr.  John  Burns,  M.P.  for  Battersea,  is 
quite  right  in  everything  he  has  said  about  these  stalls. 
The  good  stalls  are  all  on  his  side;  it  is  only  the  bad  stalls 
who  fear  him  and  do  not  agree  that  a  change  should  be 
made.  Why,"  continued  the  man,  '  you'll  find  half  a 
dozen  coffee-stalls  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  King's 
Cross.  There  is  no  need  for  such  a  number.  More  than 
half  of  them  should  be  shut  up.  And  then  those  of  us 
who  do  a  straight  business  would  feel  ourselves  pro- 
tected."   The  man  glances  across  the  street,  and  there  you 


0>3    S  s~r\ti> 


38 


THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


will  espy  in  the  half-darkness  curious  figures  standing  in 
little  groups — they  are,  to  put  it  in  the  least  offensive 
way,  not  reputable  characters — they  are  bad  men  and  bad 
vv<  mien  of  the  1<  west  type. 

You  get  on  your  bicycle  again,  and  proceed  to  get  con- 
firmation of  the  statements  which  you  have  just  heard. 


-<x  !  H  * 


STaixo 

They  are  true.  Within  the  area  mentioned  are  these  half- 
dozen  coffee-stalls,  and  you  do  not  require  to  be  told  there 
are  too  many  of  them.  You  may  or  may  not  stop  at  one 
or  more  el  them,  but  if  you  mean  to  get  over  the  ground 
which  you  intended  to  cover  when  you  started  out,  it  will 


IN    THE    STREETS  39 

be  better  for  you  to  get  on  down  Gray's  Inn  Road,  and 
there  you  will  see  still  more  coffee-stalls. 

You  have  perhaps  made  up  your  mind  to  see  something 
of  the  East  End,  though  by  this  time  you  cannot  but  be 
aware  that  this  coffee-stall  business  is  a  great  "  industry" 
— in  a  sense ;  however,  you  wish  to  continue  your  excur- 
sion. On  you  go,  therefore,  across  Holborn,  and  by 
Cheapside,  into  the  City  proper,  which  is  now  hushed  and 
quiet  even  as  some  forgotten  city  of  the  dead.  You  have 
no  doubt  read  of  cities  standing  on  the  floor  of  the  sea — 
cities  with  temples  and  theatres  and  palaces  and  splendid 
mansions  and  long  aisles  of  magnificent  streets,  and 
everywhere  in  them  and  about  them  the  blue-green  trans- 
lucent water  for  atmosphere,  and  everywhere  strange 
shadows  and  shapes,  moving  fantastically,  or  motionless, 
more  fantastic  still.  Such  in  some  sort  is  the  City  at  dead 
of  night ;  yon  have  seen  that  by  day  it  is  the  roaring, 
raging  mart  of  the  world,  but  in  these  hours  of  silence  it 
is  something  that  seems  unreal,  dreamlike,  ghostly,  born 
of  fable  and  legend  like  those  imaginary  cities  that  stand 
in  the  sea.  You  pass  through  it,  and  at  Aldgate  you  are 
on  the  edge  of  the  other  London,  the  East  End 
— cut  off  from  the  West  by  the  City.     You  ieEl^ 

reach   \\  nitechapel,   and  halt   in  the  spacious 
Whitechapel  Road;    you  behold  more  cab-stands,  more 
coffee-stalls.     If  you  get  off  at  any  one  of  the  latter  you 
will  almost  certainly  find  yourself  in  the  midst  of  a  scene 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

more  or  less  similar  to  that  which  you  saw  an  hour  or  so 
aeo  in  New  Oxford  Street.  For  there  is  a  sameness 
about  them  all.  Turn  up  to  the  left,  and  you  will  pres- 
ently arrive  in  what  has  been  called  the  "  murder  area." 
Here  is  the  coffee-stall  which  figured  not  long  ago  in 
what  is  known  as  the  Dorset  Street  case.  It  is  quiet 
enough  now,  but  at  any  one  of  these  coffee-stalls  a  brawl 
may  take  place  at  any  moment — it  depends  on  circum- 
stances, amongst  them  being  the  presence  or  the  absence 
of  the  police.  And,  if  your  curiosity  is  not  yet  satisfied, 
you  may  visit  other  parts  of  the  East  End;  but  let  us  say 
von  have  had  enough  of  it,  as  you  wish  to  take  a  run 
through  South  London  while  it  is  yet  night. 

Yi  »u  make  for  London  Bridge — one  of  the  bridges  of 
history — and  in  a  few  minutes  you  are  in  South  London. 
The  streets  here,  at  any  rate,  by  this  time  are  fallen  very 
quiet — the  great  silence  is  upon  them.  You  may  stop, 
though  most  likely  you  content  yourself  with  a  cursory 
glance  as  you  ride  along;  but  if  you  do  pause  at  one  or 
other  of  the  many  coffee-stalls,  you  will  look  on  much 
the  same  sort  of  thing  you  have  already  seen — the  stall, 
its  lamp  shining  on  a  group  of  figures  standing  about  its 
counter,  and,  not  far  away,  a  watchful  policeman.  Now, 
you  get  along  through  Battersea,  and.  crossing  the  River 
once  more,  find  yourself,  after  having  traversed  parts  of 
Chelsea  and  Belgravia,  back  at  your  starting-point.  -If 
the    nighl    has    been    line    the   journey   has   not   been   an 


IN    THE    STREETS  41 

unpleasant  one,  except  perhaps  in  such  streets  as  are  being 
washed  by  the  water-cart  brigade,  where  you  may  have 
had  to  negotiate  shallow  canals  of  muddy  filth  and  liquid 
slime.  Your  trip  may  not  have  been  particularly  edify- 
ing or  instructive,  but  if  you  have  failed  to  be  interested 
you  may  be  sure  the  fault  lies  with  yourself.  And  now  a 
word  or  two  about  the  deeds,  the  dark  deeds,  which  have 
been  perpetrated  at  these  coffee-stalls  or  in  their  immedi- 
ate vicinity.  In  a  letter  to  the  Daily  Chronicle  last 
autumn,  Mr.  John  Burns,  the  well-known  Member  for 
Battersea,  particularised  some  facts  referring 
to  the  connection  there  is  between  coffee-stalls  ,  "irTLt- 
and  crime  which  are  worth  repeating.  On  Oc- 
tober 30,  1900,  a  young  man  was  stabbed  in  the  back  at  a 
coffee-stall  in  Waterloo  Road.  On  December  7,  1900, 
police-constable  Thomson  was  killed  at  a  Whitechapel 
coffee-stall  brawl  while  properly  discharging  his  duty  in 
trying  to  quell  a  disturbance.  In  May,  1901,  a  woman, 
sixty-one  years  of  age,  was  assaulted  by  two  ruffians  at 
a  stall,  and  died  from  a  fractured  skull.  In  August, 
1901,  at  Hyde  Park  Corner,  a  porter's  head  was  cut  open 
with  a  blunt  instrument.  There  was  a  free  fight,  in 
which  a  number  of  disorderly  persons  of  both  sexes  took 
part.  The  police  said  in  evidence  that  '  objectionable 
characters  nightly  congregated  about  these  coffee-stalls, 
and  frequently  molested  late  pedestrians.'  In  August, 
1901,  there  occurred  a  typical  case  at  a  Tottenham  Court 


42  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

Road  coffee-stall.  The  following  account  of  the  subse- 
quent proceedings  in  the  police-court  may  fitly  close  this 
statement  of  the  coffee-stall  aspect  of  the  Night  Side  of 
London — 

'  At  the  London  County  Sessions,  Clerkenwell,  Mar- 
garet Ryan,  nineteen,  tailoress,  was  accused  upon  indict- 
ment with  having  maliciously  wounded  Walter  Edwards, 
a  labourer.  The  prosecutor's  evidence  was  to  the  effect 
that  at  about  one  o'clock  in  the  early  morning  of  August 
4  he  was  in  Tottenham  Court  Road  near  a  coffee-stall. 
He  was  accosted  by  five  women,  one  of  whom  was  alleged 
to  be  Ryan.  They  asked  Edwards  to  treat  them  to  cups 
of  coffee,  and.  on  his  refusing,  two  of  them  struck  him 
with  their  fists.  The  accused,  it  was  said,  produced  a 
glass  tumbler,  and  threw  it  at  the  man,  striking  him 
behind  the  left  ear.  He  was  then  knocked  down,  and 
while  on  the  ground  was  kicked  by  the  women.  At  the 
same  time  some  one,  picking  up  a  piece  of  broken  glass, 
drew  it  across  Edwards's  throat,  inflicting  an 
injury  which  had  to  be  surgically  treated. 
The  women  took  to  their  heels,  and  the  prose- 
cutor dropped  unconscious  on  the  footway.  An  alarm 
was  raised  by  the  bystanders,  and  Ryan  was  arrested 
afterwards  in  a  house.  Her  defence  was  a  plea  of  mis- 
taken identity.  The  jury  adopted  this  view  and  acquitted 
her." 

Now  thai  public  notice  has  been  called  to  the  coffee- 


IN    THE    STREETS 


43 


stalls  it  must  be  said  that  the  police  have  them  much 
better  in  hand  than  formerly.  Nor  is  there  any  doubt 
that  the  police  have  the  whole  of  London  much  more 
efficiently  protected  at  night  at  the  present  time  than  was 
the  case  only  a  few  years  ago.  This  is  to  be  seen  in  the 
constant  raiding  of  night  clubs  and  in  other  ways.  No- 
where is  this  more  marked  perhaps  than  in  the  East  End, 
as,  for  example,  in  Ratcliff  Highway,  where,  at  least  on 
the  surface,  the  scenes  which  used  to  make  that  street  a 
byword  and  a  terror  may  no  longer  be  beheld.  And  it  is 
thither  we  shall  now  go — to  take  another  look  at  the  East 
End.    And  we  shall  see — what  we  shall  see. 


CHAPTER    III 

IN    the   streets — continued.       (ratcliff    highway) 

"  In  the  streets  the  tide  of  being  how  it  surges,  how  it  rolls! 
God  !     What  base  ignoble  faces  !     God  !    What  bodies  want- 
ing souls  !" 

Alexander  Smith. 

The  now  almost  forgotten  poet  who,  in  a  sour  mood 
of  pessimism,  wrote  these  lines,  was  doubtless  thinking 
of  the  meaner  streets  of  Glasgow  which  were  very  famil- 
iar to  him,  but  they  might  be  applied  as  correctly,  or 
incorrectly,  to  the  poorer  streets  of  any  great  city.  In 
any  case  they  are  far  too  sweeping,  but  there  is  a  certain 
amount  of  truth  in  them.  To  a  large  extent  they  are  un- 
fortunately descriptive  enough  of  some  of  the  streets  of 
the  East  End  of  London,  whether  by  day  or  night.  Still, 
there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  in  the  East  End  that  bears 
even  a  poor-relation  likeness  to  the  characteristic  scenes 
that  are  to  be  witnessed  everv  evening  in  Pic- 

Cliff  1-11  T1  •  1  t~>  1  •  ,-- 

caclilly.      I  here  once  was  a  time  when  Ratclin 
Highway  presented  in  low  life  what  the  Hay- 
market  and  Piccadilly  showed  in  high,  or  at  least  better- 
dressed,  life.     And  though  it  is  hardly  correct  to  say  that 

this  time  is  entirely  of  the  past,  yet  in  a  great  measure 
44 


IN    THE    STREETS  45 

it  is — that  is,  so  far  as  the  once  famous,  or  infamous, 
Highway  itself  is  concerned;  vice  of  the  old  historic, 
full-flavoured,  fire-ship  sort  has  been  relegated  to  the  side 
streets.  The  Show  itself  is  gone;  it  has  been  replaced 
by  many  side-shows,  so  to  speak.  It  is  perfectly  possible 
to  walk  along  the  whole  street,  now  called  St.  George 
Street,  from  East  Smithfield  to  Shadwell,  "  from  Dan  to 
Beersheba,"  and  find  nothing  particularly  remarkable,  but 
if  you  plunge  into  the  back  streets  you  will  certainly  see 
and  hear,  if  you  keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open,  some 
curious  sights  and  sounds. 

It  used  to  be  the  fashion  for  visitors  to  London,  espe- 
cially when  they  were  from  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
to  form  a  party  to  make  a  tour  of  the  East  End  on  Satur- 
day evening.  Seated  on  the  top  of  a  tram  or  a  'bus,  they 
would  explore  Whitechapel  and  Mile  End  as  far  as  Bow, 
and  return;  next,  greatly  daring,  they  would  diverge 
into  the  Commercial  Road,  and  finally,  still  more  greatly 
daring,  wind  up  the  evening's  "  divarsion"  by  taking  in 
Ratcliff  Highway.  And,  sure  enough,  Whitechapel  is  a 
sight  well  worth  seeing,  and  remembering  too — the  enor- 
mous crowds  of  people,  the  flaring  lights  on  stall  and 
barrow  and  the  sea  of  upturned  faces,  the  movement,  the 
apparent  confusion,  while  the  noisy  shoutings  and  bellow- 
ings  of  would-be  sellers  rend  the  air !  And  in  the  Com- 
mercial Road  there  is  much  the  same  thing.  There  is 
nothing  specially  vicious  about  it,  nothing  wicked,  but  it 


46  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

is  interesting  to  the  student  of  human  nature,  and  to  the 

artistic  eve.  not  enamoured  solely  of  mere  prettiness,  is 

full  of  types  that  have  their  own  fascination — ■ 

it  is  all  living:,  palpitating;  drama,  mostly  of  a 

types.  ©'    1       1  O  - 

comedy  character,  but  tragedy  is  never  far 
away  in  the  East  End.  Indeed,  some  one  has  called  the 
East  laid  the  "  Everlasting  Tragedy  of  London."  There 
is  truth  in  this,  but  there  is  also  exaggeration,  just  as 
there  is  in  the  poet's  verse.  By  and  by,  in  another  chap- 
ter of  this  bonk,  you  will  see  East  End  London  setting 
out  for  its  great  annual  holiday  when  the  hopping  season 
begins,  and  you  will  also  see  that  it  manages  to  get  no 
little  fun  and  jollity  out  of  life.  Its  fun  is  not  the  same 
kind  of  thing  that  the  West  End  calls  fun,  but  it  is  just 
as  real,  perhaps  more  so. 

After  Whitechapel  and  the  Commercial  Road  you  will 
think  Ratcliff  Highway  rather  dark  and  fearfully  quiet. 
You  naturally  wish  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  so  you 
perhaps  start  from  the  Tower — if  it  is  a  fine  night  with 
a  clear-shining  moon,  that  pile  in  itself  is  a  thing  more 
than  well  worth  seeing — then  you  go  past  the  Mint  and 
St.  Katharine's  I  )oeks.  The  docks  are  on  your  right,  and 
East  Smithfield  is  on  your  left.  Presently  you  are  in  St. 
George  Street,  otherwise  Ratcliff  Highway.  The  street 
got  its  new  name  from  the  church  of  "  St.  George's  in  the 
I  ast,"  one  oi  the  great  churches  of  London;  the  church 
i>  almost  half-way  down  the  street.     Other  notable  places 


SINGING   IN   THE   STREET. 
From  an  oil  painting  by  Tom  Browne. 


IN    THE    STREETS  49 

are  the  Seamen's  Mission  Hall,  the  Seamen's  Chapel,  and 
notable  also,  though  in  a  different  way,  is  Jamrack's. 
Everybody  has  heard  of  Jamrack's,  where  you 
can  buy  any  living  creature  you  please,  from  Highwa^ 
elephants  to  humming-birds.  Jamrack's ! 
Jamrack's ! — the  name  always  sounds  like  that  of  some 
character  out  of  a  novel  by  Dickens.  Well,  you  walk 
along  the  street :  in  parts  it  is  quite  deserted,  in  others 
there  are  small  knots  of  people ;  here  and  there  are  men 
and  women  standing  or  sitting  in  front  of  their  open 
doors.  There  is  no  loud  talk,  no  shouting;  the  air  is  not 
darkly  blue,  as  you  perhaps  half  feared,  half  expected  it 
would  be,  with  strange  and  weird  oaths  and  imprecations. 
And  you  may  proceed  as  far  as  Limehouse  without  seeing 
or  hearing  anything  that  tickles  your  curiosity.  Perhaps 
011  may  stop  and  talk  to  a  policeman ;  you  ask  him  where 
are  the  once  famous  features  of  the  Highway  gone,  and 
he  will  tell  yon  that  he  does  not  know  where  they  have 
gone,  but  gone  they  are — thanks  to  him  and  his  kind. 
But  is  it  so? 

For  one  thing,  as  you  have  plodded  your  way  east- 
ward, you  have  noticed  one  feature  of  the  Highway,  and 
it  is  a  very  suggestive  feature,  and  this  is  the  number  of 
public-houses  in  the  street.  It  almost  seems  as  if  every 
second  or  third  house  was  a  "  pub."  You  have  of  course 
glanced  in,  and  you  observe  that  the  bars  of  these  places 

are  well  filled,  and  that  though  the  appointments  are  not 

4 


5o  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

of  the  most  attractive  description — they  are  not  of  the 
flaunting  gin-palace  order  so  conspicuous  in  some  dis- 
tricts of  the  town — yet  the  groups  appear  to  be  enjoying 
themselves,  and  mostly  in  a  quiet  way.  You  notice  at 
(Hire  that  the  patrons  and  patronesses  of  these  resorts  are 
all  sailor  folk,  seamen,  sailors'  wives  or  sweet- 
.Ralc,,',fl    „        hearts — all  connected   in  some  way  with  the 

publics.  J 

life  of  the  sea.  From  some  of  the  publics  you 
will  have  heard  the  strains  of  music — not  exactly  sweet 
music  either.  There  is  plenty  of  volume,  of  quantity,  in 
the  strains,  but  of  quality  not  so  much  as  might  be 
wished.  Perhaps  you  stop  and  listen;  then  you  hear  a 
song,  sung  in  a  way  that  only  a  sailor  sings  a  song.  And 
as  you  listen,  there  comes  to  you  from  afar  the  sound  of 
more  music;  it  seems  rather  remote;  you  listen  intently, 
and  you  make  out  at  last  that  it  is  being  wafted  down  to 
you  from  somewhere  up  the  side  street  at  the  corner  of 
which  you  are  standing.  You,  it  may  be  wisely,  but  that 
w  ill  depend,  determine  to  follow  it  up.  All  that  you  have 
seen  so  far  has  been  a  little  tame;  and  as  you  anticipated 
something  out    of   the   ordinary,    something   ''spicy"    or 

saucy."  you  are  rather  glad  to  launch  out  on  further 
adventure. 

And  up  this  side  street — there  is  no  need  to  give  it  a 
name,  for  there  is  more  than  one  of  it — you  do  come  on 
something  ol  the  kind  you  have  been  looking  for,  some- 
thing that   will   remind  you  of  what  you  have  read  or 


IN    THE    STREETS  51 

heard  of  the  old  Ratcliff  Highway,  something  you  may 
see  any  night,  if  you  like,  though  you  probably  would 
"  rather  not,"  in  the  low  parts  of  Liverpool  and  Cardiff. 
You  recall  what  the  policeman  said  to  you,  and  you  know 
very  soon  that  he  has  told  you  only  part  of  the  truth. 
The  Highway  itself  is  changed,  but  all  around, 
in  these  dim  streets  which  branch  off  it,  it  still  strse'ete 

survives.  Well,  you  see  it  in  every  great  port 
of  the  world — the  same  thing,  always  the  same  thing.  In 
Rotterdam,  in  Antwerp,  in  Hamburg,  in  New  York,  San 
Francisco,  Hong  Kong,  Singapore — always  the  same 
thing.  When  "  Jack"  comes  ashore  after  a  voyage,  it  is 
ten  to  one  that  he  makes  a  straight  line  for  the  nearest 
drinking-den  with  his  mates,  and  Jack  ashore  is  the  prey, 
one  might  almost  say  the  natural  prey,  of  the  publican 
and  the  sinner.  Crimps  are  the  same  all  the  world  over, 
and  so  is  that  good-natured,  big-hearted  sailorman 
whom  we  call  Jack ;  he  is  soft-headed  as  well  as  soft- 
hearted. Nor  does  the  breed  ever  change — so  there  is 
always  a  Ratcliff  Highway,  or  something  corresponding 
to  it,  in  every  port. 

And  soon  you  come  upon  a  picture,  a  typical  picture. 
There  it  paints  itself  for  you  in  front  of  a  pub- 
lic-house— the  public-house  itself,  you  cannot 

J-  J  picture. 

fail  to  observe,  being  a  very  inferior  establish- 
ment ;   in  fact  it  is  a  low  boozing-ken,  or  not  much  better 
than  one.     Three  figures  stand  outside  the  door  and  in 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

front  of  the  window,  from  which  there  streams  forth  no 
great  amount  of  light.  One  figure  is  that  of  a  representa- 
tive of  the  lowest  class  of  sailorman  there  is  under  heaven, 
and  that  is  the  man  who  looks  after  the  furnaces  and  fires 
on  a  steamer;  he  is  called  a  stoker  in  the  navy,  a  fireman 
in  the  merchant  service.  There  is  no  man  who  sails  the 
sea  who  has  so  bad  a  time  as  the  fireman:  his  work  bru- 
talises  him;  the  heat  in  the  interior  of  the  steamboats 
drives  him  mad:  his  thirst  is  quenchless — he  goes  to  sea 
nearly  always  drunk — he  wakes  from  his  stupor  with  a 
raging  thirst — he  remains  thirsty — when  he  gets  ashore 
he  rushes  to  the  nearest  drinking-den  to  quench  that 
awful  thirst  of  his.  He  is  poorly  paid,  and  what  he  re- 
ceives on  landing,  at  most  two  or  three  pounds,  soon 
disappears:  it  melts  in  a  few  hours;  usually  it  is  stolen 
from  him;  he  never  really  gives  himself  a  chance,  nor 
does  anyone  else  give  him  one. 

I  [e  has  no  chance.  Look  at  him  now !  He  is  a  demor- 
alised  man,  a  badly  demoralised  sailorman.  He  has  been 
drinking  heavily,  hut  he  has  still  some  glimmerings  of 
reason,  but  not  enough  to  keep  him  away  from  the  den. 
He  still  feels  that  awful  thirst,  which  is  the  tragedy  of 
his  lot,  poor  devil;  it  is  not  yet  satisfied;  he  must  have 
more  liquor,  even  if  it  is  the  rankest  and  vilest  stuff  that 
he  is  given — it  always  is.  But  he  must  have  more,  more, 
more,  lie  is  not  alone — this  unfortunate  wretch  of  a 
fireman,  who  is  yet — yet — a  human  being.     By  his  side 


A    RATCLIFF    PICTURE. 


IN    THE    STREETS  55 

stands  a  woman,  a  genuine  Moll  of  Ratcliff.  As  you  see 
her,  you  are  forced  to  remember  the  woman  you  have 
seen  in  the  caricatures  of  Rowlandson,  for  here  is  one  of 
them,  risen,  as  it  were,  from  the  dead:  stout,  ill- 
favoured,  hard-featured,  horriblv  leering,  abominably 
coarse,  hard,  and  filthy — -she  is  a  prostitute  of 
the  lowest  class.     She  is  making  love  (love!)  Ratcliff. 

to  the  fireman;  she  wants  him  to  stand  her  a 
drink,  but  he  has  just  enough  sense  left  to  know  all  that 
lies  that  way,  and  he  refuses — that  is,  at  first.  But  the 
woman  is  not  without  her  assistant.  For  with  her  is  a 
'  bully" — ves,  a  second  character  out  of  the  Georgian 
period  come  to  life  again !  Together  the  prostitute  and 
the  bully  gradually  edge  the  fireman  into  the  den ;  they 
coax,  they  cajole,  they  push  him  dexterously  along;  in 
a  minute  more  they  are  all  inside.  A  policeman  passing 
on  the  other  side  sees  the  game,  and  he  grins  to  himself, 
and  says,  'They've  got  him!"  And  they  have.  When 
they've  finished  with  this  poor  Jack,  he  will  be  lying  un- 
conscious in  some  street  far-retired  from  view,  his  money 
will  have  vanished,  and.  unless  he  is  very  lucky  indeed, 
so  will  have  most  of  his  clothes  !  It's  not  a  pretty  picture, 
is  it?  But  scenes  of  the  same  sort  are  to  be  witnessed  in 
every  great  port  of  the  world,  and  witnessed,  too,  every 
night,  and  not  only  in  or  about  Ratcliff  Highway ! 

While  v<  m  have  been  looking  on  this  little,  bit  of  real- 
ism,  you  have  all   the  while  heard  the  music   sounding 


56  THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


from  somewhere  higher  up  the  street;  it  now  seems  a 
little  nearer  von,  and  you  proceed  in  the  direction  from 
which  it  comes.  You  draw  nearer  and  nearer,  and  soon 
you  are  just  in  front  of  the  "Black  Cat"  or  the  "Red 
Rat" — it  doesn't  really  matter  what  we  call  it,  but  it  is 
there  right  enough!  The  sounds  come,  from 
the  first  floor,   and  if  you   follow  a  separate 

hall.  '  x 

staircase,  communicating  with  the  street  and 
not  with  the  "  pub"-  —that  is,  communicating  directly — 
you  will  arrive  in  a  fair-sized  room,  at  one  end  of  which 


fe 


i  uRnin<u  •  And 

CHUR.NINC.     • 

Round  •    AMD1 
Ro  UND    • 


is  the  hand,  discoursing  the  most  extraordinary,  unmusi- 
cal music  as  ever  was!  On  the  floor  half  a  dozen  Jacks 
arc  turning  and  churning  round  and  round  and  round 
with  robustious  young  women  in  their  arms;    they  stop 


IN    THE    STREETS  57 

turning  and  churning  after  a  while,  and  now  they  line  up ; 
then  at  it,  heel  and  toe ;  then  more  turning  and  churning, 
turning  and  churning.  The  hand  gives  forth  a  final,  ear- 
splitting  bray,  and  the  dance  is  over.  Then  drinks, 
drinks,  drinks !  Gin  and  rum  are  the  favourites  of  your 
sailorman  and  his  young  (more  generally  old)  woman. 
Suppose  you  enter  into  conversation  with  one  of  the 
ladies,  you  will  find  that  it  runs,  as  naturally  as  rivers  run 
to  the  sea,  to  gin  or  rum  or  both.  And  if  you  should  get 
tired  after  a  while,  and  you  are  pretty  sure  to  get  tired, 
of  the  dance-hall  of  the  "  Black  Cat,"  why,  there  are 
others  of  the  same  sort  no  great  distance  away.  And  if 
you  do  not  come  upon  one  of  these,  then,  at  any  rate, 
there  are  concert-halls,  contagiously  situated  to  "  pubs" 
of  the  "  Black  Cat"  stripe.  In  all  of  them  you  will  see 
Jacks — and  Jills!  And  "you  can't  'elp  but  larf,"  or  the 
whole  thing  might  break  your  heart !  Of  course,  it  has 
its  humorous  side,  but  it  has  others,  and  these  are  not  at 
all  humorous.  After  a  time  you  bid  the  chairman — there 
is  nearly  always  a  chairman  at  these  functions — good-bye, 
and  thereafter  you  turn  back  into  the  Highway  again ! 

You  now  move  westward  until  you  come  to  Wells 
Street.  Perhaps  you  hesitate — you  think  you  have  seen 
enough  for  one  evening,  but  you  walk  up  Wells  Street; 
as  you  approach  Cable  Street  you  join  a  swarming  crowd, 
which  attracts  you  and  draws  you  on.  In  a  minute  or 
two  you  are  in  Cable  Street.     It  wants  but  half  an  hour  of 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

midnight,  but  the  place  is  literally  thronged  with  people, 
so  thai  you  think  something  important  is  forward.  You 
scan  the  faces  around  you,  and,  in  a  flash,  you  see  they 
are  not  at  all  English-looking;  in  your  ears  are  the 
S(  lunds,  it  might  well  seem  to  you,  of  every  laneuaee 
under  heaven.  It  would  puzzle  you  to  enumerate  the 
nationalities  represented — but  there  are  men  and  women 
and  children  from  every  European  clime,  from  the  Orient, 
and  even  from  Africa  here.  And  you  may  be  sure  that  in 
this  seething  human  maelstrom  of  races  and  tongues  there 
is  a  seething  maelstrom  of  human  passions,  from  the  most 
primitive  and  aboriginal  to  the  most  complex  and  diaboli- 
Aforej  n  cal.  You  take  note  that  here  the  police  go 
about  in  couples ;   it  is  not  safe  for  them  to  eo 

Street.  t= 

about  their  work  singly — and  there  is  always 
plenty  of  work  for  them  here.  Yon  will  see  some  of  it 
presently.  But  what  a  world  of  curious  interest  it  is! 
Take  a  sample;  odd  but  typical.  Outside  a  shop  is  a 
small  crowd  (a  denser  crowd  in  the  crowd,  as  it  were) 
gazing  into  its  solitary  window.  There  is  music,  too, 
coming  from  the  shop;  and  the  music,  unlike  that  to 
which  you  have  listened  with  horror  earlier  in  the  even- 
ing, is  sweet,  soothing,  dreamy,  delightful.  You  manage 
to  force  your  way  into  the  crowd  before  the  window,  and 
l°°k  m-  '1  1S  a  shop — a  poor  mean  shop — a  shop  kept 
by  a  poor  man  for  poor  men  and  women.  It  is  a  baker's 
shop,  and  the  bread  sold  in  it  has  a  foreign,  unfamiliar 


IN    THE    STREETS 


59 


aspect  in  your  English  eyes.  The  shop  is  badly  lighted  by 
two  or  three  flickering  candles — tallow  "  dips."  The  pro- 
prietor, in  trousers  and  shirt  open  at  the  neck,  leans  over 
a  narrow  counter ;  beside  him  is  a  woman,  and  behind 
him,  to  his  left,  is  a  doorway,  and  in  it  stands  another 
woman — the  first  woman,  perhaps,  is  his  wife,  the  second 
his  mother.  On  shelves  are  the  loaves,  pile  on  pile, 
quaintly  shaped,  but  still  the  veritable  stuff  and  staff  of 
life.  There  are  two  or  three  customers  on  the  other  side 
of  the  counter.  And  just  to  the  left  of  them  is  a  man 
playing  divine  music  on  a  zither !  You  wonder,  is  the 
zither-player  there  to  draw  business  to  the  shop,  or  is  he 
playing  for  his  own  and  his  friends'  pleasure  and  for 
yours?  — anyway,  there  he  is.  But  what  a  strange  scene 
— the  baker's  shop,  the 
baker,    the    women,    the 


bread,  the  buyers,  the 
zither-player !  And  all 
this  part  of  London  is 
full  of  strangely  col- 
oured scenes  just  like 
this! 

You  move  on  again, 
though  you  would  fain 
linger  as  the  zither- 
player  touches  his  strings. 


And  now  you  come  to  the 
mouth  of  an  allev.     Next  the  street  stands  a  sullen  man, 


6o  THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

beside  him  two  policemen ;  far  down  the  alley  a  virago 
is  shouting  shrill  abuse  (p.  59).  The  sullen  man  is  her 
"■  man,"  but  she  is  going  for  him  as  hard  as  she  can  in  lan- 
guage which  leaves  nothing  to  the  imagination.  He  would 
say  something  in  reply,  but  the  policemen  warn  him  that 
silence  is  the  best  policy,  and  the  retort  discourteous  dies 
away  upon  his  lips.  In  her  special  brand  of 
n  East  End     vjtUperatioii  the  woman  is  a  great  artist,  and 

street  scene.  1  ° 

her  friends  and  neighbours  greet  all  her  points 
against  her  man  with  applause ;  they  wait  in  silent  enjoy- 
ment until  she  has  made  her  point,  and  then  they  roar 
their  delight  whole-heartedlv.  The  sullen  man  drifts 
away  amidst  their  jeers,  while  his  much  better-half  holds 
the  fort  in  triumph.  And  as  you  look  on,  another  man 
comes  into  the  mouth  of  the  alley — he  is  drunk  ;  he  lurches 
about ;  lie  sways  uncertainly,  but  he  halts  unsteadily  in 
the  little  crowd  which  has  been  listening  with  such  gusto 
to  the  artist  in  abusive  language.  He  says  something  in- 
distinctly. Then  he  swings  forward  a  step,  and  touches 
one  of  the  policemen.  It  may  be  that  the  police-officer 
thinks  the  man  wishes  to  hustle  him,  or  it  may  be  that  he 
thinks  this  is  the  best  way  to  treat  the  case,  but  he  gives 
the  drunken  man  a  shove,  a  push,  and  down  goes  the 
drunken  man  flat  on  his  back.  As  he  falls  on  the  flag- 
stones you  can  hear  the  thud  and  the  crash  as  his  shoul- 
ders, and  then  his  head,  strike  the  stones.  Thev  are  sick- 
ening  sounds.     He  does  not  get  up — does  not  attempt  to 


DOWN     • 

Co^b-  THE^ 
DRUHK^M  •    nfl^  • 
FkA"T  •   OM  ■    Mlt>  •    &ACK 


IN    THE    STREETS  63 

move.  People  bend  over  him,  and  look  into  his  face. 
The  man  is  drunk-stupid,  but  still  he  lies  there — he  might 
be  dead;  and  now  the  policeman,  alarmed  that  his  push 
may  have  very  serious  if  not  fatal  results,  bends  down, 
and  with  the  help  of  his  mate  raises  the  man,  whose  wits 
slowly  come  back  to  him  after  a  fashion.  They  shake 
him  about  like  a  bottle — as  if  the  process  encouraged  the 
speedier  return  of  his  wits — they  clap  his  hat  on  his  bleed- 
ing head,  and  send  him  off,  not  looking  or  caring  much 
where  he  goes.  A  friend  takes  him  by  the  hand,  and 
leads  him  away.  You  lose  sight  of  him,  and  you  are  not 
sorry.  And  now  you  have  had  quite  enough  of  it ;  you 
walk  to  the  nearest  station  or  cabstand,  and  home  you  go. 


CHAPTER    IV 


IN    SOCIETY 


jj 


'*  There  are  many  grand  dames  whose  easy  virtue  fits  them  like  a 
silk  stocking." — Du  Maurier. 

The  Night  Side  of  London  "  high  life"  is  on  the  sur- 
face extremely  kaleidoscopic,  but  beneath  the  surface  and 
in  all  essentials  it  differs  little  from  what  the  Night  Side 
of  high  life  has  been  since  high  life  began.  Its  main  fea- 
ture is,  as  it  has  always  been,  and  always  will  be,  Mr.  H. 
G.  Wells's  Anticipations  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding, 
the  Pursuit  of  Pleasure  in  an  everlasting  Vanity  Fair.  It 
is  a  merry-go-round,  whose  merriness  quickly  or  slowly, 
according  to  the  toughness  of  one's  physical  and  moral 
digestion,  passes  into  monotony.  Not  that  Society  is 
more  decadent  now  than  at  any  former  time. 

"Society." 

Indeed,  in  some  respects  Society  prides  itself 
on  being  better  than  it  used  to  be.  Thus,  if  it  gambles  as 
much  as  ever,  it  certainly  does  not  drink  to  that  excess 
which  was  its  habit  in  former  days.  Then  London  So- 
ciety is  so  much  larger  than  it  was  even  a  generation  or 
two  ago — it  has  grown  gross  with  millionaires  and  other 
Men  with  Money.    There  are  a  great  many  sets  in  Society 

—there  is  even  an  innermost  set  of  social  Olvmpians — 
64 


"IN    SOCIETY"  65 

but  the  only  people  who  are  really  "  in  it"  are  the  people 
with  the  big  bags  of  shekels.  Blue  blood  or  new  blood 
matters  not  at  all — rich  blood  is  the  thing. 

The  pursuit  of  pleasure,  like  death,  claims  all  seasons 
for  its  own,  but  London  has  ear-marked,  so  to  say,  two  of 
them.  There  is  the  season  proper,  the  season,  which 
begins  after  Easter  and  lasts  till  well  into  July  or  the  be- 
ginning of  August.  Then  there  is  the  "  little  season"  in 
October  and  November,  after  the  cream  of  the  shooting 
has  been  skimmed  and  before  the  hunting  has  com- 
menced. As  an  institution  the  "  little  season"  is  growing 
in  popularity,  but  it  does  not  begin  to  compare  with  the 
other.  All  the  greater  social  functions  take  place  during 
the  course  of  the  latter.  Royalty  is  in  town, 
and  this  is  a  prime  factor.  The  season  is  dis-  "s^so™6 
tinguished  by  '  Levees"  and  '  Drawing- 
Rooms"  at  the  Palace — also  by  balls,  garden-parties,  and 
concerts  there.  In  this  year,  1902,  the  day  Drawing- 
Rooms  have  been  abandoned,  and  evening  Courts  have 
taken  their  place ;  thus  a  novel  feature  of  the  Night  Side 
of  London  has  been  introduced.  People  whose  state  is 
little  less  than  royal  are  also  in  town.  If  the  Duchess  of 
Blankshire  is  going  to  give  a  ball,  you  may  be  sure  it  will 
come  off  about  the  end  of  May  or  some  time  in  June,  but 
it  must  be  remembered  1902  is  an  exceptional  year — the 
year  of  the  Coronation.  Also,  of  course,  Parliament  is 
in  session  during  this  period.     An  all-night  sitting  is  one 

5 


66 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OE    LONDON 


of  the  sights  you  may  wish  to  see  in  your  round-up  of  the 
town's  Night  Side,  but  you  will  find  it  much  better  fun  to 
be  in  bed. 

London,  besides,  attracts  at  this  time  vast  numbers  of 

people  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe — foreigners  of  every 

tongue   and    colonials — and    they    are    always 

The 

"Amurrican"    very  keen  to  see  everything.    Foremost  amongst 

element. 

the  elements  which  go  to  swell  the  already- 
gorged  city  is  the  ever-enlarging  "  Amurrican"  invasion 
each  spring,  .and  at  the  head  of  the  invaders  is  the  pretty, 

brilliant,  perplexing,  distracting, 
American  "  gal."  She  is  a  woman 
of  many  ideas,  but  she  is  devoted 
to  one  above  all  others,  and  that  is 
the  "  good  time."  She  is  deter- 
mined to  have  it,  and  she  does;  in 
her  eyes  her  male  relatives  exist 
for  no  other  object  than  to  supply 
the  necessary  wherewithal  for  the 
campaign.  She  is  indefatigably 
pleasure-loving.  She  is  very  much 
in  evidence  in  the  Night  Side  of 
London  Society — just  as  she  is  a 
feature  of  its  Day  Side,  and  in  not 
a  few  smart  sets  she  is  queen.  She 
comes,  she  is  seen,  she  conquers.  And  at  the  end  of  each 
season  her  native  newspapers  recount  with  no  inconsid- 


"  IN    SOCIETY"  67 

erable  pride  the  number  of  dukes  and  other  big-  game  she 
has  "  bagged."  You  bet  she  has  a  "  good  time."  Why, 
she  was  made  for  it ! 

How  does  London  Society  spend  its  evenings,  its 
nights,  before  it  goes  to  sleep?  It  makes,  as  a  rule,  a  good 
long  night  of  it  before  it  turns  in,  jaded  and  faded  and 
tired  out.  It  has  a  good  deal  of  sympathy  with  the  Scotch 
laird  who,  on  being  called  in  the  morning  by  his  man,  and 
being  told  that  it  was  a  wet  day,  ordered  his  servant  to 
keep  the  blinds  down  and  the  shutters  closed,  and  he'd 
"  make  a  night  of  it."  Well,  how  does  Society  spend  its 
nights  before  it  retires  ?  Does  not  the  Press  unweariedly 
record  it  every  morning?     Some  newspapers 

"  What 

make  a  handsome  thing  for  their  proprietors  society 

Is  Doing.  ' 

out  of  the  business,  and,  incidentally,  afford 
anything  but  exiguous  incomes  to  the  ladies  of  title  and 
others  who  furnish  them  with  "  pars."  to  go  under  some 
such  heading  as  "  What  Society  Is  Doing."  Imprimis, 
there  are  dinners.  Of  necessity,  "  One  must  eat  some- 
where"— Lord  Beaconsfield  never  said  anything  truer 
than  that.  '  Where  is  the  man  who  can  live  without 
dining?"  And  we  English  have  ever  been  trencher-men 
of  renown ;  in  fact,  it  has  been  broadly  stated  that  we  are 
a  race  of  gluttons  and  coarse-feeders.  But  the  charge  is 
too  sweeping;  everything  'depends,"  once  one's  first 
youth  is  past,  on  one's  doctor  chiefly ;  we  are  all  slaves  to 
Harley  Street,  and  "  cures"  and  courses  of  this  thing  or 


68  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

that.  The  specialist  has  his  finger  ever  on  onr  pulse,  is 
ever  looking  at  our  tongue,  is  ever  regulating  us  like  ma- 
chines— as  we  are.  Yet  sometimes  we  venture,  greatly 
daring,  to  flout  and  defy  him.  Think  of  the  hundreds  of 
decorously  chill  dinners,  at  which  enormous  quantities  of 
food  are  consumed,  that  take  place  during  each  season,  or 
of  the  savage  supper-fights  often  seen  at  dances  and  balls! 
Truth  to  tell,  the  gentle  art  of  dining  delicately  and  dain- 
tily is  not  particularly  understanded  of  the  British  people, 
great  or  small.  We  have  plenty  of  French  chefs,  yet 
nothing  (but  the  doctor,  and  not  always  he)  can  kill  our 
English  appetites.  This  is  one  of  the  things  in  regard  to 
which  each  of  us  "  remains  an  Englishman."  A  great 
chef  once  said  there  were  just  two  kinds  of  dinner — one 
was  a  dinner,  and  the  other  wasn't.  But  as  regards  Eng- 
lish dinners  (when  they  are  not  of  the  second  descrip- 
tion), there  are  several  kinds,  such  as  the  State  Dinner, 
the  Civic  Banquet,  the  Club  Dinner,  the  Restaurant  Din- 
ner, and  the  Private  Dinner — the  last-named  ranging 
from  the  Feast  to  the  Pot-luck.  As  a  rule,  the  man  who 
is  invited  to  take  pot-luck  has  a  pressing  engagement — 
otherwise  he  has  dyspepsia  for  a  week. 

The  State  Dinner  is  pretty  sure  to  be  a  solemn  func- 
tion, but  if  you  have  the  honour  of  being  present  on  one 
of  these  oppressive  occasions,  you  can  at  least  relieve  the 
almost  intolerable  tedium  of  it  by  studying*  the  deport- 
ment of  your  fellow-guests.     The  humorist  has  ever  a 


IX    SOCIETY" 


69 


perpetual  feast  of  good  things  within  and  without  him- 
self, and  humour  has  no  recruiting-sergeant  so  keen  as 
the  trained  faculty  of  observation.  Yet  it  never  does  to 
forget  that  humour  is  a  dangerous  thing,  and  therefore 
you  will  keep  your  ideas  to  yourself.  Even  at  the  Civic 
Banquet,  where  you  have  a  wider,  more  broadly  human 
field,  it  is  well  to  remember  this.  At  the  Club 
Dinner,  too,  it  is  not  a  bad  thing  to  recall  how 

o  dinners. 

true  this  is.      Here,  perhaps,  you  are  among 

friends  who  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself. 


But  your  sphere  of  observation  is  sure,  except  on  special 
occasions,  of  which  more  anon,  to  be  somewhat  limited ; 
for  the  Club  Dinner  is  not  what  it  was.  Men  don't  dine 
at  their  clubs  nowadays ;  they  go  with  their  wives  or  the 
wives  of  others  (it  is  astonishing  how  this  phrase  will 
keep  on  repeating  itself!)   to  partake  of  the  Restaurant 


XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

These  Restaurant  Dinners  are  comparatively 
recent  institutions,  so  to  speak,  having  come  into  vogue 
(hiring  the  last  few  years,  hut  they  have  become  almost, 
if  not  altogether,  the  greatest  feature  of  the  Night  Side 
of  London  high  life.  Fashion  shifts  about  a  bit  amongst 
the  larger  restaurants,  and  there  are  certain  of  them  more 
frequented  by  one  smart  set  than  another.  But  all,  or 
nearly  all,  the  big  hotels  have  restaurants,  and  some  of 
the  smaller,  and  perhaps  a  trifle  more  select,  have  them 
too;  they  cater  handsomely  for  tout  le  monde  that  can 
pay.  So  you  may  dine  at  Claridge's,  or  the  Carlton,  or  the 
Cecil,  or  the  Savoy,  or.  if  you  prefer  a  restaurant  pure 
and  simple,  at  Prince's,  the  Imperial,  the  Trocadero,  the 
Criterion,  Frascati's,  and  so  forth.  No  shade  of  doubt 
but  you  get  the  best  dinners  in  London  at  the  restaurants, 
and  see  the  most  interesting  company  in  them  as  well. 

But  it  may  be  that  you  do  not  regard  dining  as  the  sole, 
or  even  the  chief,  business  of  life,  and  certainly  "  all  Lon- 
don" does  not  spend  every  evening  in  dining  luxuriously 
or  the  reverse.  So,  after  dinners,  or  in  addition  there- 
unto, what  come  next  in  the  tale  of  the  Night  Side  of 
'  high  Sassiety,"  as  it  is  called  in  the  music- 
parties.  halls'     Well,  of  course,  there  are  evening-par- 

ties innumerable — parties  with  music,  recep- 
tions where  professional  entertainers  sometimes,  though 
not  always,  succeed  in  entertaining;  evening  card-parties, 
where  bridge  or  poker  will  be  the  attraction   (cards  are 


"IN    SOCIETY"  71 

also  played  after  "dinners");  'small  and  earlies" ; 
"  little  dances,"  where  you  may  hope  to  sit  out  a  dance  or 
two  with  your  best  girl  if  you  have  any  luck;  big  private 
or  subscription  balls,  penny  plain  or  twopenny  coloured — 
in  other  words,  in  ordinary  evening  attire  or  in  fancy 
dress,  though  the  latter  are  not  common,  the  masquerade 
having  died  out  pretty  well  from  amongst  us — and  for 
cause;  and  last,  but  not  least,  skating-parties  (in  the 
earlv  part  of  the  year),  which  now  and  again  rise  to  the 
giddy  height  of  being  styled  "  carnivals."  And  there  is 
no  prettier  sight  in  London  than  one  of  the  skating-rinks 
when  it  is  well  filled.  ( What  the  present  writer  does  not 
understand  is  why,  seeing  that  London  is  so  full  of  Scots- 
men as  to  have  earned  the  name  of  the  Caledonian  Asy- 
lum, curling-rinks  are  not  added  to  the  sporting  equip- 
ment of  the  town  in  many  quarters.  Is  it  because  the  fair 
sex  does  not  curl  ? — there  is  a  spacious  opportunity  to  pun 
here  or  hereabouts,  but  it  is  magnanimously  foregone.) 

Then,  of  course,  besides  dinners  and  parties  there  are 
the  theatres,  the  opera,  concerts,  the  music-halls.  London 
supports  many  theatres,  and  their  number  is 

,  •  •  i        1      t  1        '  •  Plavs  and 

always    increasing.      .And    London  s    taste    in  pjayers. 

plavs   and   players   is   amazingly   catholic;     it 
prefers  comedy  to  tragedy,  and  has  a  liking  in  reason  for 
farce,  but  so  long  as  the  piece  is  good,  well  acted,  well  put 
on,  London  patronises  it  generously.     A  poor  play,  how- 
ever,   has    no   chance.      What    high-life    London    wants 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

is  to  be  amused ;  it  seeks  for  brightness,  sparkle,  pretty 
ensembles;  it  hates  to  be  made  to  think.  It  will  have 
nothing  to  say  to  Ibsen,  it  likes  Mr.  George  Alexander, 
but  it  prefers  Mr.  George  Edwardes  five  days  out  of  the 
six.  Its  standard  of  intelligence  is  not  the  highest  in  the 
world,  but  then  you  can't  expect  it  to  have  everything. 
High  living  and  plain  thinking  are  not  necessarily  yoke- 
fellows, but  they  undoubtedly  form  the  average  team.  If 
the  combination  ever  by  any  chance  reads  a  dramatic  criti- 
cism, it  may  possibly  look  at  half  a  dozen  lines  by  Mr. 
Clement  Scott,  but  not  at  a  single  sentence  written  by  Mr. 
William  Archer.  There  is  one  feature  about  the  theatres 
which  London  Society  does  enjoy — it  really  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  theatres,  but  the  theatres  give  it  local 
colour,  as  a  novelist  would  say.  This  is  the  "  Supper 
after  the  Theatres"  idea.  And  here  again  the  big  restau- 
rants come  in  once  more  with  their  lavish  and  luxurious, 
if  not  exactly  disinterested,  hospitality. 

In  the  next  chapter  you  shall  be  given  some  closer 
views,  some  less  furtive  peeps  at  the  Night  Side  of  Lon- 
don high  life.  For  the  present  pray  imagine  you  have 
been  flattered  by  receiving  an  invitation  to  the  Duchess  of 
Blankshire's  ball,  and  that  you  are  now  among  her  Grace's 
guests,  of  whom  there  are  so  many  that  it  is  somewhat  dif- 
ficult for  you  to  get  about.  You  came  in  excellent  temper, 
\"Y  just  before  you  started  off  for  the  Duchess's  mansion 
—it  should  be  called  a  palace,  but  that  is  not  the  English 


X>*  "*>*-•* 


ft 


CROWD   ON   THE   GREAT   STAIRCASE. 


"  IN    SOCIETY"  /5 

way — you  remarked  to  your  friends  at  the  Club,  who  you 
knew  had  not  been  asked,  with  an  irritatingly  distinct 
voice  that  you  supposed  you  "  must  go,  though  balls  are 
such  a  bore" ;  you  are  therefore  well  aware  that  you  are 
envied  and  sincerely  detested  by  the  men  less  fortunate 
than  yourself — and  this  is  to  have  succeeded!  Each  of 
them  would  like  to  tell  you  with  conviction  that  your 
going  to  the  ball,  or  your  not  going,  won't  make  the 
slightest  difference  to  anybody  on  earth,  but  they  haven't 
the   courage.      So   off   you    drive — perhaps   a 

The 

little  after  eleven  o'clock — in  high  spirits  and  Duchess  of 
very  greatly  tickled  with  yourself.     You  wait  s  {^ 

your  turn  in  the  street  in  the  long  line  of  car- 
riages moving  by  fits  and  starts  up  to  her  Grace's  door, 
and  if  your  patience  (much  improved  by  that  little  speech 
of  yours  at  the  Club)  is  not  too  severely  tried,  you  will  in 
time  descend  and  walk  under  a  red  canopy  brilliantly  lit 
with  many  twinkling  electric  lamps  into  the  hall,  which 
is  filled  with  flowers  and  flunkies,  to  say  nothing  of  people 
like  yourself  arriving  all  the  while,  and  is  also  brilliantly 
illuminated  with  pink  and  silver  lights.  Your  fellow- 
guests  wear  a  pleased  look  on  top  of  their  clothes — this  is 
part  of  the  game  of  manners.  Having  deposited  your  hat 
and  cape,  you  join  the  crowd  on  the  great  staircase 
( p.  7$ ),  in  itself  a  thing  of  pride,  and  push  or  are  pushed 
upwards  to  shake  her  Grace  by  the  hand.  Should  she 
happen  to  know  you,  you  may  get  a  word  or  two  from 


76  THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

her,  but  as  it  is  much  more  likely  that  she  hasn't  the  ghost 
of  an  idea  who  you  are,  you  will  pass  silently  by,  and  soon 
get  lost  in  the  crowd.  It's  a  case  of  not  being  able  to  see 
the  trees  for  the  wood ;  one  can't  find  one's  friends  in  the 
crush — indeed,  unless  you  are  either  very  tall  or  particu- 
larly self-assertive,  you  may  see  hardly  anybody.  There 
is  an  awful  story  of  a  little  man  who  got  hemmed  or 
penned  into  a  corner  of  one  of  her  Grace's  rooms,  and 
who  remained  there  in  a  state  of  semi-suffocation  until 
the  rush  down  to  supper  mercifully  put  an  end  to  his  suf- 
ferings. It  is  therefore  no  bad  plan  to  keep  "  circulating" 
on  every  opportunity  which  presents  itself. 

It  may  be  that  you  are  a  dancing  man — a  somewhat 
rare  bird  in  these  days.  Her  Grace's  ballroom  is  the  finest 
in  London,  and  the  music  is  insinuating  and  inviting — 
'  Will  you,  won't  you,  come  and  join  the  dance?"  You 
will — at  least  you  would  if  you  could,  but  you  can't.  The 
floor  is  already  covered,  and  movement  is  difficult.  A 
few  couples  are  really  dancing — wherever  that  is  the  case, 
you  may  bet  with  much  safety  that  the  lady  is  une  belle 
Americaine;  but  the  majority  of  the  dancers  are  mere 
revolving  figures,  confined  within  a  narrow  orbit ;   if  they 

attempt  to  get  outside  of  it  their  career  is  im- 
Dance."  mediately  stopped  by  more  revolving  couples, 

who  frown  down  the  eccentricity  of  the  other 
dancers.  This  is  how  it  is  in  the  waltzes.  Your  English- 
man  does  better  in  a  romping  polka  or  in  swinging  barn- 


"IN    SOCIETY' 


77 


dance,  for  these  are  things  in  which  brawn  and  muscle  tell 
far  more  than  skill,  and  the  English  girl  has  a  weakness 
— a  family  feeling — for  brawn  and  muscle.     And  in  the 
Lancers — intended  originally  to  be  one  of  the  most  grace- 
ful and  delightful  of  measures — you  will  also  see  a  won- 
derful  display   of   agility.      Agility,    of   course,    has    its 
points,  but  it  is  not  always  beautiful;    still,  there  it  is! 
Having  taken  in  so  much  of  this,  you  perhaps  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  the 
best    way    to    enjoy    a 
dance  is   to   sit   it   out. 
So  you  take  your  part- 
ner   and    lead    her   out 
of  the  crush,  and  make 
for     the     stairs,     per- 
haps, or  for  some  cosy 
nook    or    other    where 
you   may   recover  your 
breath,    and    say    such 
thing's  as  are  wont  to  be  said  on  such  occasions,  wonder- 
ing  silently  but  persistently  if  you  will  be  able  to  get  any 
supper. 

Supper  is  a  matter  of  prime  importance.  Her  Grace's 
mansion  is  a  vast  place,  and  the  supper  ( if  you  can  only 
get  a  chance  to  reach  it )  is  sure  to  be  excellent.  But  then 
her  guests  are  legion;  how  are  they  all  to  be  fed?  If 
y<  >u  are  a  really  great  personage,  then,  of  course,  you  need 


THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

have  no  misgivings.  The  Duchess  will  see  that  you  are 
taken  care  of.  But  if  you  belong  to  the  crowd  of  people 
wlm  are  not  great  in  any  way,  you  will  have  to  wait  till 
"'  Your  Betters''  are  served,  and  take  your  turn  by  and  by. 
It  is  just  possible  that  you  may  have  to  scram- 

Suppi  i . 

ble  for  your  food — such  things  are  not  alto- 
nether  unknown  even  at  the  Duchess  of  Blankshire's 
entertainments.  Still,  in  process  of  time  you  will  be  fed 
and  you  will  have  your  thirst  quenched.  Then  back  for 
an  hour  or  two  to  the  ballroom  again,  or  to  some  other 
nart  of  the  house.  After  what  you  assure  her  Grace  with 
a  vacuous  smile  has  been  such  a  pleasant  evening,  you  go 
off  again  at  two  or  three  in  the  morning,  remarkably  glad 
that  it  is  all  over.  Later,  you  will  gabble  at  the  Club 
about  the  affair,  and  remark  what  a  success  it  was !  What 
a  crowd  !  Everybody  was  there!  The  dear  Duchess  does 
those  things  so  well!  Never  had  a  more  ripping  time! 
You  fairly  tumble  over  yourself  as  you  tell  the  other 
"  chaps"  about  it. 


CHAPTER    V 


STILL    "  IN    SOCIETY 


>> 


"  At  the   Blenheim  an   agreeable  atmosphere  of   polite   rakishness 
prevails  which  is  peculiarly  attractive  to  innocent  women." 

Percy  White,  The  West  End. 

Here  are  some  typical  scenes. 

On  one  evening  you  shall  dine  at  the  Cecil.  Later,  you 
shall  take  a  look  in  at  the  Empire  or  the  Alhambra  or  the 
Palace.  That  will  be  enough  for  one  evening.  If  you 
respect  your  chef  and  the  dinner  he  has  provided  for  you 
(in  other  words,  if  you  respect  yourself),  you  will  find 
the  evening  sufficiently  well  filled  up  by  the  dinner  alone, 
but  it  is  possible,  if  you  are  an  energetic  person,  to  take  in 
both.  A  dinner  at  the  Cecil  will  not  be  unlike  a  dinner  at 
any  other  of  the  great  hotels  or  restaurants, 

Dinner  at 

and  it  is  selected  for  that  reason ;    should  you         the  Hotel 

Cecil. 

wish  for  more  detailed  information  on  the 
subject  of  restaurant  dinners,  then  you  are  recommended 
to  read  some  such  book  as  that  of  Colonel  Newnham- 
Davis  on  Pinners  and  Dining.  The  Cecil  is  now,  with  its 
hundreds  of  rooms,  one  of  the  largest  hotels,  if  not  the 
largest,  in  the  world.  In  common  with  its  neighbour,  the 
Savoy,  it  commands  one  of  the  finest  views  of  its  kind  in 

79 


8o  THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

any  capital  of  the  globe — the  view  of  the  Thames  Em- 
bankment and  the  Thames  itself.  But  as  you  probably 
won't  dine  much  before  eight  o'clock,  yon  may  not  be  able 
to  see  it;  at  most  the  river  will  likely  be  indicated  by 
numerous  lights,  to  say  nothing  of  huge  electric  adver- 
tisements. You  ascend  to  the  noble  dining-room,  your 
thoughts,  however,  intent  on  dinner,  not  scenery.  Your 
footsteps  are  inaudible  on  the  thick  carpets — the  whole 
atmosphere  of  the  place  is  one  of  luxury.  Here  are  seren- 
ity, peace,  repose.  The  air  is  perfumed  with  the  scent  of 
flowers.  The  room  is  full,  but  not  too  full,  of  small  tables, 
and  on  the  tables  are  softly-glowing  shaded  lights.  And 
the  men  and  women  who  are  dining,  or  about  to  dine,  are 
all  well-dressed,  well-bred — at  least,  most  of  them.  They 
are  of  all  nationalities  under  the  sun,  but  the  majority  of 
them  are  American.  The  dinner  itself  is  not  an  English 
dinner — it  is  French.  You  can  dine  sumptuously  for  half 
a  guinea,  or  you  can  pile  up  a  monumental  bill  by  order- 
ing a  la  carte.  And  the  wines  are  just  what  you  have  a 
mind  (  and  a  purse)  to  pay  for.  Everything,  you  will 
find,  is  done  for  you  delicately,  thoughtfully,  well.  You 
are  given  plenty  of  time  to  study  the  menu — and  your 
fellow-guests;  you  talk  to  your  friends  with  quiet  enjov- 
ment.  And  if  you  are  wise  you  will  eschew  the  eternal 
platitudes,  as  they  do  not  improve  digestion. 

Well,  yon  have  had  your  liqueur  and  your  coffee  and 
your  cigar  or  cigarette;    it  is  now  ten  o'clock,  you  reflect, 


AT-  TttE. 
EttPIPE  • 


STILL    "  IN    SOCIETY"  83 

and  there  are  a  couple  of  hours  at  least  before  bed-time. 
You  have  a  hansom  called  for  you,  and  you  are  driven  to 
one  of  the  three  higher-class  music-halls,  if  that  is  your 
wish,  or  to  one  of  the  others,  where  you  will  perhaps  be 
even  better  entertained  but  at  somewhat  less  cost.  At  or 
about  a  quarter  past  ten  the  best  "  turn"  of  the  evening  is 
on  at  the  1  falls.  To  say  the  truth,  there  is  nothing  very 
strikingly  new  to  be  seen  at  the  halls,  but  then 
is  there  anything  new  under  the  sky?     Per-  .  r"  \l'e 

•>  o  -  music-halls. 

haps  the  current  feature  of  the  show  which  is 
"  going  strong"  is  a  dance,  or  a  song,  or  a  combination  of 
both,  or  some  juggle  or  other — you  have  seen  all  this  kind 
of  thing,  you  tell  yourself  somewhat  gratuitously,  for  you 
knew  what  to  expect  before  you  came,  a  hundred  times 
before,  but  all  the  same  you  look  on,  and  you  know  you 
will  do  so  again.  The  turn  over,  you  get  up  from  your 
stall,  go  up  the  stairs  to  the  "  Promenade"  —and  open 
your  eyes  very  wide.  Here  you  will  certainly  see  a  crowd 
of  men  and  women,  and  you  will  hardly  require  to  be  told 
who  the  ladies  are  and  what  they  are  doing  here.  The 
men  smoke,  drink,  talk.  The  women  stand  or  move 
about,  their  wandering  glances  keen  and  inquisitive. 
Here  and  there  these  painted  ladies  are  seated,  but  their 
eyes  rove  restlessly  always  until  they  fasten  on  some  indi- 
vidual who  appears  willing  to  respond.  It  is  a  strange 
spectacle — this  exchange,  this  traffic,  this  Fair  in  Frail 
Flesh;  but  this,  too,  is  no  new  thing;   indeed,  in  one  way 


NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

or  another,  it  also  belongs  to  the  category,   it   is  to  be 

feared.  o\  the  eternal  platitudes.     "  Well.  say.  what  d'yOU 
think  o"  the  Show?"     "Same  old  Show!'*      By  the  way. 


S% 


there  is  one  thing  von  should  not  fail  to  notice,  and  that 
is  the  general  high  excellence  oi  the  music  provided  by 
the  orchestras  in  the  Halls. 

Another  evening  you  dine  early,  for  you  are  going  to 


ILL    -  IN    SOCIET 

the  opening  night  of  the  (  -   ason  at  I    >arden. 

This  is  a'  one  of  the  chief  events  of  tl  m — to 

many  it  is  the  event.    There  is  plenty  of  music  of  all  k: 
to  be  heard  in  London  all  the  year  round,  but  the  Opera  at 
Co  vent  Garden   :-    its   highest  n.       T:  -  ^ra 

House   itself  i-   not   an   impressive  building,   corn- 
none  too  favourably  with  the  opera-houses         Paris,  or 

Vienna,  or  even  New  York.    But  on  the  open- 

i  - 

ing  night  of  the  season,  or  on  a  night  when  a 
grc  _rer  is  to  appear,  there  is  no  more  bril- 

liant sight  to  be  seen  in  any  land  than  the  interior  of  C 
ent  Garden  Opera  House.  Long  bef  the  hour  an- 
nounced for  the  curtain  to  be  raised  carriages  in  a  r 
half  a  mile  in  length  stand,  or  slowly  crawl  towards  the 
door  under  the  portico,  their  movements  carefully 
guarded  and  regulated  by  the  police.  Some  minutes  be- 
fore the  curtain  goes  up  the  auditorium  is  packed  with  as 
many  great,  distinguished,  or  rich  people  as  it  can  hold. 
It  is  a  wonderful  society  gathering.  In  the  boxes  you 
shall  see  rank,  beauty,  fashion ;  fair  faces,  with  eyes  flash- 
ing or  languorous,  above  dazzling  shoulders:  the  gleam 
of  diamond-,  the  glitter  of  jewels,  the  flirting  of  fai  - 
confections  the  most  artistic  and  superb  in  dress  and  c  5- 
tume  de  Paris — their  wearer-  -  -  ff  by  the  plain,  undis- 
tinguished evening  attire  of  the  men.  as  if  by  the  most 
splendid  of  foils.  And  in  the  stalls  it  is  much  the  same. 
Here,   in   brief,   is   Everybody   that   is   Anybody — peers. 


86 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


peeresses,  statesmen,  great  ladies,  diplomats,  politicians, 
high  financiers,  merchant  princes — tout  le  monde  et  sa 
friii inc.  And  amongst  them  it  is  just  possible  there  are 
some  genuine  lovers  of  music. 

You  are  so  much  taken  up  with  looking  about  you  at 
the  brilliant  ensemble  that  you  pay  no  heed  at  first  to  the 
orchestra  tuning  up.  But  you  do  notice  the  conductor 
enter,  and,  baton  in  hand,  bow  to  the  audience.  Presently 
the  curtain  is  raised,  and  discloses  the  com- 
0    I  pany  in  the  costumes  of  the  opera  of  the  even- 

ing. The  prima  donna  comes  a  little  step  for- 
ward; every  one  rises  while  she  sings  the  first  verse  of 
the  National  Anthem;  the  other  singers  join  her  in  sing- 
ing   "  God   Save  the   King."      Then   everybody,   having 

engaged  in  this  exercise,  sits  down, 
M  (v*  bis  sentiment  of  loyalty  gratified. 
In  a  minute  or  two  more  the  opera 
begins — it  is  rarely  a  new  opera ; 
the  old  favourites  are  preferred, 
always  with  the  exception  of  Wag- 
nerian opera,  which  has  come  to 
stay,  fit  is  Mark  Twain  who  has 
assured  the  world  that  the  works  of  Wagner  contain  far 
nn  .re  music  than  you  might  suspect  on  bearing  them  per- 
formed. )  At  the  close  of  the  acts  the  chief  singers,  the 
conductor,  the  manager,  and  perhaps  a  few  others  (but 
not  the  scene-shifters,  as  it  has  somewhere  been  menda- 


(crrf<-T       CABOtJ 
Oft** 


STILL    "  IN    SOCIETY"  87 

ciously  asserted)  are  summoned  before  the  curtain,  and 
vigorously  applauded.  The  social  side  of  the  thing  is  to 
be  seen  in  visits  paid  from  box  to  box  in  the  intervals,  and 
the  smoking  foyer  is  a  centre,  where  men  meet  and  com- 
pare notes,  though  it  is  tolerably  certain  the  notes  will  not 
be  concerned  so  much  with  the  music  as  with  the  people 
who  are  present.  "  Isn't  Lady  So-and-so  looking  re- 
markably well  to-night?  Wonder  how  she  does  it! 
She's  fifty  if  she's  a  day !    Wonderful !    And  look  at  little 

Laura !     She's  another  wonder.     Did  you  see  he  was 

in  the  box?  Well,  if  her  husband  can  stand  it.  it's  all 
right,  I  suppose."  And  so  on  and  so  on.  Somewhere 
about  midnight  the  opera  comes  to  an  end.  Perhaps  you 
go  home,  or  perhaps  you  go  to  supper  at  somebody  else's, 
for  there  are  some  superb  supper-parties  given  after  the 
opera's  over.  Or  you  may  go  to  one  of  the  clubs,  where 
you  will  have  something  to  eat,  and  exchange  more  gossip 
about  your  neighbours.  A  wit  once  said  that  the  most 
interesting  things  in  the  world  to  cats  were  other  cats ; 
the  most  interesting  things  in  the  world  to  men  and 
women  are  other  men  and  women,  and  so  you  talk  and 
talk  and  talk  ! 

A  third  evening  you  dine  early  again,  and  go  to  one  of 
the  theatres;  it  is  a  '*  first-night,"  a  premiere.  Should  it 
be  a  really  great  occasion — the  production  of  a  new  play 
by  Pinero.  or  the  reappearance  in  title-roles  of  favourite 
actors  and  actresses —  you  will  assuredly  find  yourself  in 


88 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


some  of  the  best  company  in  England.     For  there  is  in 

London  a  small  regiment  of  industrious  and  indefatigable 

'  first-nighters,"  nearly  all  clever  people,  and 

many  of  them  distinguished  in  art  or  letters  or 

nights.  -  •=> 

in  some  other  way,  who  would  almost  endure 
anything  rather  than  miss  a  "  first-night"  at  the  theatre. 
Amongst  the  audience  will  be  a  large  number  of  those 

strange  and  fearsome  folk  called 
dramatic  critics,  and  if  you  will 
go  and  stand  in  the  foyer  be- 
tween the  acts,  and  listen  to  the 
remarks  of  these  curious  people, 
you  will  be  not  a  little  enter- 
tained. But  should  you  be  a 
friend  of  one  of  the  actors  you 
may  listen  with  some  fear  and 
trembling,  for  on  the  verdicts  of  the  foyer  much  of  the 
success  or  failure  of  the  piece  depends. 

Of  recent  years  there  has  been  a  great  multiplication 
of  theatres  in  London,  not  only  in  central  London,  where 
you  will  find  the  so-styled  West  End  houses,  but  all  over 
the  metropolis.  And  in  the  theatres  of  Kensington  and 
Fulham  and  Clapham  and  other  districts  of  the  town  you 
will  see  as  good  acting  and  as  well-mounted  pieces  as  you 
will  see  anywhere — and  you  will  see  them  for  far  less 
money.  For  it  is  the  one  rule  to  which  there  is  no  excep- 
tion, that  belonging  to  the  West  End,  being  in  the  West 


STILL    "  IN    SOCIETY"  89 

End,  buying  in  the  West  End,  doing  anything  whatsoever 
in  the  West  End,  will  cost  you  more  than  it  will  anywhere 
else  on  earth.  If  on  theatrical  pleasure  bent,  you  will 
find  it  no  bad  scheme  to  drive  down,  say,  to  the 

Non 

Coronet,  and  spend  your  evening  there  for  a         west  End 

theatres. 

change.  Besides,  you  will  behold  other  classes 
of  people  altogether.  For,  there  Suburbia,  which  is  much 
in  evidence  in  the  West  End  in  the  afternoons  at  mat- 
inees and  "  Pops,"  goes  to  the  play  of  an  evening.  And 
it  is  more  and  more  getting  into  the  habit  of  frequenting 
the  playhouses  situated  in  its  midst,  and  less  and  less  of 
going  to  the  West  End  theatres.  As  a  great  treat  it  goes 
occasionally  to  the  Haymarket,  or  Wyndham's,  or  the 
Garrick,  or  some  other  of  the  central  houses ;  it  makes  a 
point  of  marching  in  its  families  to  the  Pantomime  at 
Drury  Lane  at  Christmas  time ;  but  for  the  most  part  it 
is  well  content  with  its  local  theatres.  The  East  End 
theatre  proper  and  music-hall  belong  to  a  different  class, 
and  you  shall  see  something  of  them  by  and  by. 

If  you  have  been  to  a  "  first-night"  at  one  of  the  central 
houses,  the  odds  are  that  you  are  one  of  a  party,  and  that 
a  supper  at  the  Carlton  will  appropriately  wind  up  the 
evening.  If  you  happen  to  be  the  host  you  will  have  taken 
care  to  apprise  the  authorities  of  the  hotel  of  your  inten- 
tion to  sup,  and  have  secured  a  table;  if  you  have  not 
done  so  in  advance  you  may  make  the  unpleasant  discov- 
ery that  you  cannot  be  accommodated,  for  often  in  the 


go  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

season,  and  indeed,  sometimes  out  of  it,  people  have  to  be 
turned  away.  But  you  suffer  no  unhappy  rebuff  of  this 
sort,  for  your  table  has  been  engaged — you  are  expected. 
It  may  be  the  table  is  in  a  line  with  the  door 
leading  into  the  great  hall,  where  after  supper 
you  will  sit  for  a  few  minutes  and  have  your 
coffee  and  last  drink  and  smoke ;  but  if  you  sit  at  this  par- 
ticular table,  you  have  the  advantage  of  seeing  the  guests 
as  they  enter,  and  in  this  way  you  get  to  know  the  com- 
pany you  are  in.  The  supper  is  prix-Uxe  and  is  good; 
the  wines,  too,  are  choice.  It  may  be  questioned  if  there 
is  any  place  in  the  world  where  anything  is  better  done 
than  at  the  Carlton  (particularly  in  its  grill-room), 
though  Prince's  and  the  Imperial  run  it  close.  This  sup- 
per is  a  cheerful  function.  You  are  in  an  atmosphere  of 
soft  lights,  sweet  music,  pretty  women — add  to  it  all  the 
effective  green  background  of  the  decoration  of  the  wall. 
There  is  the  pleasant  hum  of  conversation,  and  the  voices 
are  not  shrill  or  loud.  The  waiters  move  about  noise- 
lessly. Everything  goes  on  velvet.  And  the  people  you 
see  are  all  interesting:  there  a  well-known  man  of  fash- 
ion, here  a  celebrated  actress  in  a  ravishing  gown;  there 
a  gallant  soldier  back  from  the  Front,  here  an  authoress, 
a  lady-playwright,  of  renown  ;  there  a  great  lady,  a  prin- 
cess, here  a  man  of  genius  whose  fame  is  world-wide. 
And  the  eternal  human  comedy-tragedy  is  being  plaved 
for  all   it   is   worth.      You   read  stories  into  the  smiling 


STILL    "  IN    SOCIETY"  93 

faces ;  you  make  guesses,  vague  or  clear ;  you  build  up 
little  romances,  see  hints  of  little  ironies;  you  indulge  in 
pleasant  little  dreams  or  glance  away  from  what  may 
become  a  tragedy.  In  a  word,  you  are  looking  on  at 
another  phase  of  the  Show. 

Still  another  evening,  and  you  are  at  Prince's,  but  on 
this  occasion  you  have  not  gone  to  sup  or  dine,  but  to  a 
dance  in  the  Galleries  above  the  restaurant.  The  party  is 
given  by  a  friend  of  yours,  perhaps,  and  he  is  giving  this 
entertainment  (which  you  may  be  sure  will  cost  him  the 
proverbial  Pretty  Penny)  to  celebrate  the  twenty-first 
birthday  of  his  daughter.  It  is  a  pretty  attention  on  the 
part  of  Papa,  but  his  pretty  daughter  well  deserves  it. 
The  dance  begins  at  an  hour  which  allows  you  to  dine 
comfortably  before  going  to  the  Galleries,  and  when  you 
get  there  you  have  the  privilege  of  being  presented  to  the 
young  lady  who  is  the  Heroine  of  the  Occasion,  and  who 
receives  your  congratulations  with  a  charming  smile. 
Perhaps  you  ask  for  the  honour  of  a  dance,  but 

A  dance  in 

miss,  bless  her !    has  to  dance  with  so  many  Prince's 

Galleries. 

that  your  chance  of  a  polite  refusal  is  a  good 
one.  Well,  there  are  others,  for  the  picture-lined  walls 
enclose  an  array  of  living  pictures  a  great  deal  more  inter- 
esting than  the  works  of  the  painter-fellows,  however 
excellent  they  may  be.  The  band  strikes  up,  and  the 
dancers  (you  soon  see  this  is  a  dance  at  which  people  do 
really  dance)   begin  to  swing  and  sway  to  the  dreamy 


94  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

measures  of  the  waltz.  If  you  do  not  dance,  or  cannot 
dance,  you  can  sit  out  in  other  rooms  where  palms  and 
other  innocuous  thing's  will  give  you  a  certain  shelter — 
if  the  circumstances,  that  is,  suggest  that  a  little  conceal- 
ment is  not  a  hail  idea.  Then,  all  the  evening,  dance  after 
dance,  with  an  interval  oi  an  hour  or  so  for  a  supper  to 
which  the  whole  company  can  sit  down  in  peace  and  com- 
fort, and  without  being  mobbed  and  ragged  to  death. 
This,  you  see.  is  an  almost,  or  an  altogether,  perfect 
dance;  it  is  not  a  great  scramble  of  an  affair  such  as  the 
Duchess  oi  Blankshire's  was.  It  is  a  dance  of  the  debu- 
tante, so  to  speak  ;  a  dance  oi  youth  and  pleasure  in  life's 
gay  morn:  hut  it  is  well  done,  comfortably  done;  and 
you  are  grateful.  As  for  the  young  huh-  herself,  you 
think,  as  you  go  over  the  scene  afterwards,  of  Thack- 
eray's lines — 

"  She   comes  ! — she's    here  ! — she's   past  ! 
And  heaven  eo  with  her!" 


CHAPTER    VI 


NOT    '"'  IN    SOCIETY' 


'  The  damp,  river-scented  earth  slipped  under  his  feet.  The  blare 
of  a  steam  clarion,  and  the  bang  of  a  steam-driven  drum,  sounded, 
and  the  naphtha  lamps  of  the  merry-go-round  and  the  circus 
gleamed  through  the  fog." — David  Christie  Murray,  Despair's 
Last  Journey. 

Like  all  great  cities  London  is  a  city  of  the  most  as- 
tounding contrasts.  The  same  night  which  sees  the  pretty 
birthday-dance  at  Prince's,  the  charming  supper-party  at 
the  Carlton,  and  the  like,  also  sees  the  cheap  Soho  after- 
the-theatre  restaurant  supper,  the  Shilling  Hop,  the 
Penny  Gaff,  and  their  like.  Not  that  these  last-named 
expressions  of  the  Night  Side  of  London  should  be  mixed 
up  indiscriminately,  for  in  these,  as  in  most  things,  there 
are  degrees.  For  instance,  there  is  a  world  of  difference 
between  the  Masked  Ball  (of  which  more  anon)  and  the 
innocent  Shilling  Hop  (which,  too,  you  shall  be  taken  to 
by  and  by  ) .  But  you  must  now  allow  yourself  to  go 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  society.  And  as  you  de- 
scend this  long  ladder,  you  shall  pause  here  and  there. 
The  transition  from  high  to  low  is  not  so  abrupt  as  many 
imagine;  indeed,  there  are  many  steps.  Take  as  an 
example    the    typical    cheap    restaurant    of    Soho.      The 

95 


96  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

hierhest  class  of  Soho  restaurant,  such  as  Kettner's,  is  of 
course  very  good ;  there  are  no  cosier  private  dining- 
rooms  in  all  London  than  those  you  find  at  Kettner's. 
But  Kettner's  has  for  years  past  ceased  to  be 
Soho*  a  cheap  restaurant ;    its  prices  now  range  with 

those  of  the  greatest  restaurants.  No,  the 
typical  Soho  restaurant  is  that  which  gives  a  three- 
shilling,  a  half-crown,  a  two-shilling,  or  an  eighteen- 
penny  dinner,  and  a  supper,  after  the  theatre,  for  a  shil- 
ling or  a  little  more.  And  though  you  may  suspect  that 
some  of  the  dishes  on  the  menu  are  fearfully  and  wonder- 
fully made,  still  these  dinners  and  suppers  are  simply 
"  amazing  value." 

Apart  from  such  places  as  Kettner's — by  the  way,  it 
began  by  being  a  cheap  restaurant  like  its  humbler  neigh- 
bours: its  fortune,  it  is  said,  was  made  when  it  was  dis- 
covered by  a  former  editor  of  the  Times — the  highest- 
priced  of  the  ordinary  Soho  dinners  is  no  more  than  three 
shillings  at  the  Florence  or  half  a  crown,  as  at  the  Italic 
But  you  can  do  very  well  at  such  restaurants  as  the  Bou- 
logne for  two  shillings,  or  at  Guermani's  for  eighteen- 
pence.  Two  or  three  of  these  restaurants  have  a  reputa- 
tion which  is  almost  world-wide — such  as  the 
dinner0  Roche.     Again,  there  is  the  Gourmets — where 

you  may  dine  very  cheaply  a  la  carte,  begin- 
ning with  potage  bonne  feinnie,  which  will  cost  you  two- 
pence a  plate.     And  so  on.     It  will  pay  you  very  well  to 


NOT    "IN    SOCIETY" 


97 


spend  an  evening,  say  once  a  fortnight,  in  exploring  the 
Soho  restaurants.  And  not  only  is  the  food  good,  hut  the 
people  you  see  are  interesting.     Here  you  may  certainly 


study  types  of  men  and  women  you  will  hardly  behold 
outside  of  this  district.  And  then  look  at  the  menu.  It 
begins  with  hors  d'ceuvres  varies — sardines,  smoked  her- 
ring, anchovies,  olives,  tomato-salad.     Then,  your  choice 

7 


98  THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

of  clear  or  thick  soups — and  the  soups  (Heaven  only 
knows  what's  in  them!)  of  Soho  are  simply,  marvellously 
excellent.  Now  follows  the  fish-course,  and  here,  alas ! 
the  Soho  restaurant  does  not  always  shine,  and  this,  it 
may  he  guessed,  is  because  fish  is  never  cheap  in  London. 
Then  an  entree,  after  which  comes  the  "  Farinasse," 
which  is  usually  maccaroni  in  one  form  or  another.  In 
some  restaurants,  notably  Guermani's,  the  maccaroni  is 
worth  the  whole  price  of  the  dinner.  And  next  there  is  a 
slice  of  the  fillet  or  a  piece  of  chicken,  or  rather  poulef  roti, 
which  Du  Maurier  always  declared  was  quite  a  different 
thing  from  roast-chicken.  Finally  sweets,  cheese,  fruit. 
And  all  for  two  shillings  or  eighteenpence!  As  for  the 
wines,  you  can  have  what  you  are  willing  to  pay  for. 
But  it  may  be  said,  that  as  the  Soho  establishments  are 
much  frequented  by  foreigners  from  wine-drinking  coun- 
tries, who  presumably  know  good  wine,  you  probably  get 
tolerable  stuff  at  an  exceedingly  moderate  price.  Espe- 
cially is  this  the  case  with  respect  to  such  Italian  wines  as 
Capri,  Barolo,  and  Chianti.  All  the  Franco-Italian  res- 
taurants provide  special  after-the-theatre  suppers  at  from 
half  a  crown  to  eighteenpence,  which  are  quite  as  amazing 
as  their  dinners. 

And  this  leads  to  the  remark  that  nearly  all  the  restau- 
rants of  London  are  in  the  hands  of  foreigners,  principally 
Italians.  Moreover,  these  foreign  restaurants  are  spread- 
ing all  over  London  ;  they  are  no  longer  confined  to  Soho. 


NOT    "IN    SOCIETY" 


99 


The 
East  End 
eating- 
house. 


Yon  will  find  them  in  Whitechapel,  in  the  Borough,  in 
Putney,  in  New  Cross,  and  so  on.  If  you  care  to  do  so, 
you  shall  dine  at  one  of  these  places  in  the  south-east  dis- 
trict, and  spend  the  evening  afterwards  at  a  typical  East 
End  entertainment,  say,  in  Deptford.  Or,  if 
you  prefer  to  get  yourself  still  more  en  rapport 
with  your  surroundings,  you  can  take  a  seat  in 
a  little  box-like  stall  in  an  "  eating-house" — a 
much  humbler  kind  of  thing  than  the  foreign  restaurant 
— peculiar  to  the  locality,  where  you  shall  dine  (dine, 
please  remember)  on  a 
twopenny  pie,  or,  if  you 
will  venture  to  go  the 
"  whole  elephant,"  off  a 
bowl  of  stewed  eel.  Your 
twopenny  pie  will  be  of 
astonishingly  generous 
proportions — to  a  hun- 
gry man  it  will  seem  a 
feast.  And  as  for  the 
dish  of  stewed  eel — why, 
there  is  no  delicacy  of 
the  Carlton  grill-room  to 
be  compared  with  it ;  at 
least,  that  is  what  your  East  End  epicure  believes ;  but 
then  he  knows  the  stewed  eel  passing  well  and  the  Carlton 
grill  not  at  all. 


y.  pie. 


ioo        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

Then,  having  feasted  at  a  charge  of  a  few  pence,  you 
go  out  into  the  swarming  streets.  And,  to  appreciate 
properly  all  this  aspect  of  the  Night  Side  of  London,  you 
must  choose  a  Saturday  night,  when,  in  very  truth,  the 
streets  do  swarm  with  people.  Wet  or  dry,  it  hardly  mat- 
ters, the  thoroughfares  are  black  with  people  shopping 
and  gossiping.  Both  sides  of  the  streets  are  lined  with 
shops,  before  many  of  which  stand  salesmen  vociferously 
calling  attention  to  the  excellence  and  low  price  of  their 
wares.  In  front  of  the  butchers'  stalls,  in  particular,  you 
shall  see  men  eagerly  addressing  the  crowd,  while  their 
constant  shouts  of  "  Buy,  buy,  buy!"  rend  the 

"  Buv,  buy,  ,.   ,  a  •  t_  •         in     ,1 

b    ,?,  air.  Ave  it  at  yer  own  price!     they  cry. 

'Given  awiy!  Given  awiy !  Buy,  buy,  buy! 
Buy,  buy!"  It  is  a  sort  of  Babel — but  it  all  means 
business.  And  if  you  were  to  stay  here  to  watch 
for  two  or  three  hours — till  half-past  eleven,  when  the 
very  very  poor  come  forward  in  the  hope  of  getting  bar- 
gains, and  listened  to  the  deafening  clamour,  you  would 
think  business  impossible.  But  there  is  a  great  deal  done 
for  all  that.  You  will  be  irresistibly  reminded  of  the  cat- 
story,  in  which  the  father  said,  in  reply  to  the  fears  ex- 
pressed by  his  little  boy  that  there  would  soon  be  very  few 
pussies-left,  "  'cos  last  night  I  heard  'em  all  swearin'  and 
fightin',  and  bitin',  and  killin'  each  other  on  the  roof" — 
No,  no,  little  son,  the  only  result  of  all  that  noise  you 
heard  will  be  more  cats,  not  fewer!" 


NOT    "IN    SOCIETY"  101 

And  as  you  walk  along  you  come  to  a  sort  of  alley,  up 
which  move  many  figures;  they  are  going  to  see  "the 
show" — an  East  End  show.  And  you  follow  in  their 
wake.  As  you  enter  the  alley  you  see  on  your  left  a  huge 
poster,  whereon  is  depicted  an  enormous  elephant,  and 
you  are  at  once  taken  with  the  picture  of  the  colossal 
beast.  Naturally,  you  expect  to  see  him  in  the  menagerie 
beyond,  which  is  one  of  the  chief  features  of  the  show  to 
which  you  have  invited  yourself.  It  is  only  when  you  are 
returning  this  way  again,  after  having  been  in  the 
menagerie,  in  which  you  have  not  seen  the  elephant,  that 
you  look  at  the  poster  a  second  time,  and  now  you  observe 
that  the  elephant  is  stated  as  being  on  exhibition  at  the 
Agricultural  Hall,  and  not  here  at  all !  But  "  how's  that" 
for  advertising?  The  poster  of  this  poster  is  evidently  a 
bit  of  a  wag.  Or,  is  it  that  he  is  in  collusion  with  the  pro- 
prietors of  the  menagerie  up  the  yard?  You  move  for- 
ward under  the  flaring  arches  of  gaslights  for  a  short  dis- 
tance, and  in  a  moment  or  two  you  stand  in  a  yard  of 
some  size,  brilliantly  illuminated.  As  Mr.  Murray  re- 
marks in  the  quotation  with  which  this  chapter  begins, 
'  the  blare  of  a  steam  clarion,  and  the  bang  of 
a  steam-driven  drum,  sounded,  and  the  nanh- 

i  go-round. 

tha  lamps  of  the  merry-go-round  and  the  circus 
gleamed  through  the  fog."     But  there  are  differences  be- 
tween  Mr.    Murray's  picture  of  the  show   at    Reading, 
which  he  described,  and  that  now  before  your  eyes.     For, 


102        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

here,  the  merry-go-round  boasts  electric  lamps  instead  of 
naphtha,  a  menagerie  takes  the  place  of  the  circus,  and 
there  is  no  fog — though  perhaps  the  night  is  dark,  and 
there  is  a  drizzle  in  the  air.  The  merry-go-round  is  cer- 
tainly a  handsome  affair,  and  is  handsomely  supported  by 
the  crowd,  who  mount  upon  its  "  fiery,  long-tailed  snort- 
ers" with  all  the  will  in  the  world.  And  these  steeds, 
mark  von,  do  not  only  go  "  wound  and  wound,"  but  also 
move  up  and  down  with  their  riders.  "  All  life-size,  and 
twice  as  natural !"  And  then  the  music,  the  Cyclopean 
music  of  the  steam  clarion  !  And  the  thunder  of  the 
steam-driven  drum!  And  all  for  a  penny  a  ride!  Will 
you  have  one?  It  will  perhaps  make  you  seasick?  you 
answer.  Well,  there's  something  in  that.  So  you  look 
at  something  else. 

All  round  the  capacious  yard,  except  on  the  side  where 
stands  the  menagerie,  and  the  other  side  where  is  the  big 
engine  which  drives  the  hobby-horses  arrangement,  are 
ranged  various  devices  for  extracting  pennies  from  your 

pockets.  They  are  mostly  of  the  three-shies- 
a  penny ,»        a-penny  variety,  and  a  spice  of  skill  (or  would 

you  call  it  "luck"?)  enters  into  them  all.  If 
you  are  successful  a  prize  rewards  you.  You  are  anxious 
to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  and  you  begin  by  in- 
vesting a  penny  in  three  rings,  which  you  endeavour  to 
throw  in  such  a  way  as  to  land  them  round  the  handle  of 
a  knife  stuck  into  the  wall.     It  looks  easy,  and  you  go  into 


NOT    "  IN    SOCIETY"  103 

the  business  with  a  light  heart.  But — but  you  don't  suc- 
ceed. Another  penny — you  try  again,  and  again  you  are 
defeated.  What  'O !  Another  penny — and  this  time  you 
accept  defeat,  and  move  on  to  the  next  stall,  where  another 
penny  gives  you  the  privilege  of  trying  to  roll  three  balls 
into  certain  holes  with  numbers  attached  thereunto. 
Should  you  score  twenty  you  will  win  a  cigar.  But  you 
do  no  more  than  score  nine.  Undiscouraged,  or  perhaps 
encouraged  by  this  fact,  you  spend  another  penny,  and 
another,  and  another — but  you  don't  get  the  cigar,  and 
it  is  well  for  you  that  vou  don't !  For  there  are  cigars  and 
cigars.  On  you  go,  and  next  you  try  your  hand  at  the 
cocoa-nuts,  or  the  skittles,  or  the  clay-pipes,  or  in  the 
shooting-alleys.  And  so  on  and  on — until  your  stock  of 
pennies  and  patience  is  exhausted.  Then  you  turn  to  the 
menagerie. 

Your  interest  in  this  particular  show  ought  to  be 
greatly  heightened  by  the  fact  that  on  the  platform  out- 
side it  there  is  displayed  the  announcement,  "  Last 
Night,"  but  you  have  already  heard  that  it  is  always  the 
'  Last  Night"  with  this  entertainment,  and  therefore  vou 
are  not  wildly  excited.  The  front  of  the  menaeerie 
exhibits  several  extraordinary  representations  of  scenes 
in  which  lions,  tigers,  and  other  ferocious  beasts  appear  to 
be  about  to  devour  their  tamers.  As  you  gaze  on  these 
blood-curdling  pictures,  the  showman  in  a  tremendous 
voice  bids  you  "  Walk  up,  walk  up,  ladies  and  gentlemen  !" 


104        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

And  you  do  walk  up,  and  soon  you  are  inside  the  place, 

and  your  protesting  nostrils  ask  you  why  you  insult  them 

in  this  way — for  your  first  impression  of  the 

menagerie  is  that  it  is  one  vast  offensive  smell. 

menagerie,  o 

Having  got  somewhat  accustomed  to  this 
odour,  you  go  round  with  the  crowd,  and  see  a  fine  young 
lion  in  his  cage,  a  couple  of  lionesses  in  a  second,  a  black 
bear  and  a  hyena  in  a  third,  half  a  dozen  wolves  in  a 
fourth,  some  dejected-looking  monkeys  and  a  cat  of  the 
domestic  variety  in  a  fifth,  a  kangaroo  in  another,  and  so 
on.  There  are  eight  or  ten  cages  in  all,  and  certainly  you 
can't  in  reason  expect  much  more  for  twopence,  which  is 
the  charge  for  admission. 

On  one  side  is  an  opening  into  a  side-show,  "  price  one 
penny."  A  man,  standing  on  a  box  at  the  entrance  to  it, 
cries  out  in  a  loud  voice  that  in  the  side-show  are  to  be 
seen  three  of  the  "  greatest  novelties  in  the  whole  world." 
One  of  them,  he  tells  you,  is  a  petrified  woman,  the  sec- 
ond is  the  smallest  kangaroo  in  existence,  and  the  third 
is  (he  largest  rat  alive.  A  curious  little  collection,  is  it 
not?     At  any  rate  it  draws  an  audience  to  the  speaker  on 

the  box.  In  a  minute  or  two  he  passes  into 
sidtshow.        tne  side-show,  and  you  go  with  him.      First, 

he  shows  you  the  tiny  kangaroo,  a  greyish- 
white,  squirming  creature,  with  long  hind  legs  and  a  very 
long  thick  tail;  it  was  born  in  the  menagerie,  the  show- 
man  declares.      Next,   you   are  asked   to  gaze  upon   the 


A   TYPICAL    KAST-END   SHOWMAN. 


NOT    "IN    SOCIETY"  107 

petrified  woman.  You  see  a  gruesome  object  in  the 
leathery  brown  skin.  '  A  little  over  a  hundred  years 
aero,"  savs  the  showman  in  a  solemn  tone,  "  this  woman, 
a  sister  of  mercy,  was  walking-  about  just  like  you  or  me. 
(We  weren't  walking  about — but  that's  a  detail.)  She 
had  gone  with  a  rescue-party  into  a  mine  in  Wales,  but 
she  herself  was  lost.  When  her  body  was  found  years 
later  in  the  mine,  it  was  discovered  in  the  petrified  condi- 
tion in  which  you  now  see  it!"  He  invites  any  lady  or 
gentleman  in  the  audience  to  touch  the  Thing,  but  no  one 
is  in  the  least  anxious  to  do  so.  Then  he  moves  on  to 
another  box,  pulls  up  a  curtain,  and  discloses  a  handsome 
bright-eyed  animal,  the  size  of  a  fox,  which  he  assures 
you  is  the  largest  rat  in  the  world ;  it  was  "  lately  cap- 
tured by  a  soldier  in  the  Transvaal,  and  brought  to  this 
country  ;   secured  by  us  at  enormous  expense !" 

But  now  the  celebrated  lion-tamer  is  about  to  give  his 
performance  in  the  menagerie,  and  you  press  back  into 
the  main  show.  The  lion-tamer,  attired  in  what  looks 
like  a  cycling-suit  which  had  seen  much  better  days,  whip 
in  hand,  enters  the  cage  where  are  the  wolves,  and  puts 
them  through  a  few  simple  movements.  They 
appear  to  be  very  tame  indeed,  and  behave  iion-tamer! 
much  in  the  way  dogs  would.  But  the  next 
performance  is  quite  another  kind  of  thing.  The  lion- 
tamer,  it  is  announced,  is  to  try  to  force  an  entrance  into 
the  cage  of  the  young  lion,  "  only  three  and  a  half  years 


io8        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


U  IOH   ■ 


old — the  age  at  which  lions  are  most  ferocious,"  says  the 
orator  with  meaning.     He  continues,  "  Now,  ladies  and 

gentlemen,  I  must  tell  you  that  the 
lion-tamer  enters  this  cage  at  the 
risk  of  his  life.      I   must   request 
you  all  to  keep  silence,  so  that  the 
lion  will  not  be  excited  more  than 
is  necessary.     Remember  the  lion- 
tamer  is  in  peril  of  his  life.     He 
will  try  to  enter  the  cage.     Should 
lie  succeed,  I  will  ask  you  to  give 
him  a  hearty  cheer.     He  is  risking 
his  life!"     He  concludes  his  ora- 
tion    gloomily.       All     of     which 
makes,  as  it  was  intended  to  make, 
a  vast  impression  on  the  audience. 
What  follows  deserves  a  paragraph  to  itself — it  is  re- 
markable, to  say  the  least  of  it,  that  is,  if  it  is  not  all  a 
'  put-up   job."      Two   or   three   attendants,   armed   with 
things  that  resemble  pikes,  range  themselves  in  front  of 
the  cage.     Perhaps  there  are  some  hot  irons  at  their  feet. 
The  lion-tamer  endeavours  to   enter  by  a  door  on   the 
left,  but  the  lion  springs  to  meet  him  with  a 

The  lion. 

roar,  thrusts  his  paw  against  the  door,  and  the 
tamer  is  beaten  back.  Next,  he  essays  a  door  on  the 
right,  but  the  lion  once  more  out-manceuvres  him,  and 
the  tamer  remains  on  the  outside.     There  are  murmurs 


NOT    "  IN    SOCIETY"  109 

of  joyful  excitement  in  the  crowd,  and  again  they  are 
entreated  to  keep  quiet.  The  tamer  now  tries  the  first 
door  again,  but  the  lion,  after  a  short  yet  determined 
struggle,  prevails,  and  the  tamer  is  defeated.  Then  he 
tries  the  second  door  again,  but  with  no  better  success. 
By  this  time  the  lion — he  is  really  a  fine,  handsome,  even 
noble  specimen — appears  to  be  in  a  wild  rage;  his  roars 
fill  the  place;  he  snarls  fiercely;  he  bites  at  the  bars  of 
his  cage.  The  people  stand  patiently,  wondering  what  is 
to  be  the  next  move  of  the  lion-tamer.  It  is  soon  revealed. 
In  the  middle  of  the  bars  of  the  cage  there  is  a  narrow 
aperture,  and  through  this  slit  is  thrust  an  arrangement 
of  thin  boards,  which  nearly,  but  not  quite,  divides  the 
cage  in  two.  The  lion  is  penned  in  on  one  side ;  the 
tamer  enters  by  the  door  farthest  away;  the  board  is 
withdrawn ;  the  tamer  cracks  his  whip ;  the  lion  springs 
at  him  with  a  growl,  but  the  great  beast  flashes  past  the 
tamer.  Again  the  whip  is  cracked,  and  the  king  of  beasts 
runs  round  the  cage  once  or  twice.  When  his  back  is 
turned,  the  tamer  makes  a  quick  exit,  and  all  is  over.  The 
whole  thing,  whether  trick  or  not,  is  dramatic.  The 
cheers  which  had  been  asked  for  in  advance  are  now  given 
with  a  will.  And  thereafter  the  tamer  goes  into  the  cage 
of  the  two  lionesses,  but  after  the  last  performance  this 
seems  comparatively  tame  and  stupid,  for  the  lionesses 
are  as  docile  as  cats.  The  band  plays  "  God  save  the 
King,"  and  the  people  flock  out.      They  certainly  have 


no        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

had  their  pennies'  worth.  By  the  way,  one  of  the  little 
graceful  attentions  paid  you  by  this  show,  so  to  speak,  is 
that  "  God  save  the  King"  is  played  about  every  quarter 
of  an  hour — to  give  those  inside  a  hint,  doubtless,  that 
they  are  not  expected  to  stop  all  night  in  the  menagerie, 
and  to  encourage  those  hesitating  outside  to  go  in  at  once, 
or  they  will  lose  their  last  chance.  Of  course,  the  East 
End  menagerie  is  not  the  West  End  "  Hippodrome,"  but 
you  think  of  the  difference  in  price.  Not  that  here  in 
Deptford  you  will  always  see  a  menagerie.  Sometimes,  it 
will  be  a  genuine  "  Penny  Gaff,"  or  theatre,  to  which  the 
admission  is  one  penny;  if  you  want  a  seat  (a  "stall") 
you  will  have  to  pay  twopence  or  even  threepence.  And 
here  you  will  be  vastly  entertained.  There  are  always 
two  plays  on  the  programme:  one  a  tragedy,  the  other  a 
farce.  To-night  will  be  presented  the  blood-curdling 
drama  of  '  Maria  Martin,  or  the  Murder  in  the  Red 
Barn.'  Or  the  play  may  be  '  Three-Fingered  Bob,  or 
the  Dumb  Man  of  Manchester."  And  here  you  shall  have 
veritable  villains  of  the  deepest  dye,  heroines  of  unimagi- 
nable virtue  and  loveliness,  heroes — the  whole  old  stale 
bag  o'  tricks,  in  fact.    And  as  for  the  audience, 

The 

penny  gaff.  never  was  there  one  which  so  thoroughly  de- 
tested villains,  and  so  whole-heartedly  adored 
lovely  and  virtuous  heroines.  How  they  enjoy  the  com- 
plete defeat  of  the  former ! — you  can  tell  that  by  the  en- 
thusiastic way  in  which  the  crowd  hisses  them:   and  how 


NOT    "IN    SOCIETY"  in 

they  delight  in  the  final  triumph  of  the  heroines !  It  mat- 
ters not  that  during  the  whole  time  the  performance  is 
going  on  the  audience  has  been  eating  fried  fish,  or  suck- 
ing oranges,  or  cracking  nuts,  or  otherwise  attending  to 
its  inner  man.  Nay,  these  light  refreshments  are  all  part 
and  parcel  of  the  entertainment.  You  can  see  "  Lizer" 
turn  from  the  villain  dying  on  the  stage  to  the  bit  of  fish 
she  has  in  her  hand  with  fresh  relish  and  vigour — because 
the  black-hearted  scoundrel  is  meeting  his  just  reward. 
And  then  the  farce!  Its  subject  not  infrequently  deals 
with  the  countryman  just  come  to  London.  He  travels 
to  the  big  town  in  a  smock,  and  he  carries  over  his  shoul- 
der his  small  belongings  in  a  red  cotton  handkerchief. 
Of  course,  he  is  as  green  as  his  own  fields,  and  how  he  is 
laughed  at  by  those  knowing  East  Enders ! 

Another  time  you  may  find  the  Penny  Gaff  has  been 
replaced  by  Wax  Works,  or  a  Ghost  Show,  or  something 
else.  But  it  is  in  these,  and  such  as  these,  that  one  phase 
of  the  Night  Side  of  the  East  End  of  London  expresses 
itself.     Now  for  another — the  East  End  music-hall. 


CHAPTER    VII 

AN    EAST    END    MUSIC-HALL 

"  Let  youth,  more  decent  in  their  follies,  scoff 
The  nauseous  scene,  and  hiss  thee  reeling  off." 

Steele,  The  Tatler,  No.  266. 

The  music-hall  must  be  considered  a  chief  feature  of 
the  Night  Side  of  London  ;  it  is  certainly  one  of  the  most 
popular,  whether  in  the  West  End  or  the  East.  Its  lead- 
ing comedian,  Mr.  Dan  Leno,  has  been  honoured  by  a 
"  command"  of  the  King.  It  is  a  far  cry,  however,  from 
the  humour  and  whimsicalities  of  "  good  old  Dan"  to  the 
comicalities  of  the  typical  East  End  music-hall  star.  But 
it  matters  not  whether  the  hall  is  within  a  stone's  throw 
of  Piccadilly  or  outside  the  radius,  it  is  ever  a  popular 
institution.     One  of  the  sights  of  the  town  is  the  long 

queue  of  people  standing  outside  the  Alham- 
queeUe.a  bra,  the  Empire,  the  Palace,  the  Tivoli,  the 

"  Paw,"  the  Oxford,  and  other  halls,  until  the 

doors  leading  to  pit  and  gallery  are  thrown  open.     The 

queue  often  has  to  wait  for  a  considerable  time,  sometimes 

in  the  pouring  rain,  but  it  does  so  with  wonderful  patience 
112 


AN    EAST    END    MUSIC-HALL  113 

and  good-humour — the  wait  being  frequently  enlivened 
by  the  strains  of  the  nigger  minstrel,  or  some  other  open- 
air  entertainer.  To-night  you  shall  go  to  the  Palace  of 
Varieties  at  Greenwich.  Last  night  you  were  at  Dept- 
ford,  and  now  you  travel  half  a  mile  or  more  further 
south-eastward.  Perhaps  you  begin  this  particular  even- 
ing with  a  fish-dinner  at  the  famous  Ship,  just  opposite 
Greenwich  Hospital,  and  though  the  Ship  is  not  quite  the 
fashionable  resort  it  once  was,  you  may  do  a  great  deal 
worse  than  dine  there. 

You  make  your  way  to  the  Palace  of  Varieties,  Green- 
wich. You  are,  perhaps,  a  trifle  late,  and  on  inquiry  you 
find  the  only  seats  left  are  "  fauteuils,"  price  one-and-six. 
For  a  thorough  appreciation  of  the  humours  of  the  scene 
you  should  have  come  earlier  and  got  a  place  in  the  gal- 
lerv,  price  threepence.  But  you  have  no  option,  so  you 
plunge  recklessly,  and  bang  goes  one-and-sixpence.  The 
fauteuils  prove  to  be  seats  in  the  front  row,  and  those 
vacant  when  you  arrive  are  immediately  behind  the  con- 
ductor of  the  orchestra.  Well,  you  are  a  bit  too  near  the 
music,  but  there  is  some  compensation,  for  you  are  able 
to  see  how  the  conductor  conducts  and  at  the  same  time 
adds  to  the  quality  and  tone  of  his  band.  With  his  left 
hand,  you  observe,  he  plays  a  piano  what  time  he  manip- 
ulates a  harmonium  with  his  right.  And  all  the  while  he 
seems  to  be  able  to  exchange  confidences  with  the  first 

violin,  who,  you  cannot  fail  to  perceive,  is  a  wag.     You 

8 


i  14 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


■  Charlie." 


do  not  take  this  in  all  at  once,  for  your  eyes  at  first  are 
fastened  on  the  stage,  where  two  comely  females  are  en- 
o-ao-ed  in  a  vigorous  encounter  of  words, 
which  you  surmise  may  lead  eventually  to 
something  very  like  blows— as  it  does.  You  pick  up 
the  subject  or  the  object,  which  you  please,  of  the  duel  of 

tongues  between  the  two 
ladies,  one  of  whom  is 
dressed  like  a  superior 
shop-assistant,  while  the 
other  might  be  a  fac- 
torv-girl.  They  both  lay 
claim  to  the  affections  of 
a  certain  "  Charlie,"  and 
in  the  wordy  warfare 
that  ensues  they  do  not 
spare  each  other.  '  Do 
you  know,"  asks  the  su- 
perior shop-assistant  in  a  shrill  voice,  "  that  I  have  blue 
blood  in  my  veins?"  "What  I  do  know,"  retorts  the 
other,  with  great  deliberation,  "  is  that  you'll  soon  have 
red  blood  on  your  nose!"  Whereat  the  house,  hugely 
tickled,  roars  delightedly.  "Do  you  know,"  cries  the 
first,  "  that  my  father  occupies  an  important,  a  very  im- 
portant, position  in  the  town?"  'As  a  mud-pusher,  I 
suppose!"  And  again  the  audience  screams  its  apprecia- 
tion;    indeed,   the   audience   does   this   on   the   slightest 


^L*"  Cit-lC 


AN    EAST    END    MUSIC-HALL 


ii5 


provocation  during  this  particular  "  turn."  Finally,  the 
end  you  have  foreseen  comes.  A  little  fisticuff  battle  con- 
cludes the  action — without  any  damage  to  either  of  the 
scrappers,  who  suddenly  stop,  shake  hands,  and  stand 
bowing  and  smiling  before  the  footlights.  The  curtain 
descends,  and  the  band  plays  a  loud  and  lively  air,  the 
cornet,  in  particular, 
adding  several  horse- 
power to  its  volume 
and  momentum,  so  to 
speak. 

Next  appears  upon 
the  stage  a  young  lady, 
rouged,  powdered,  de- 
colletee,  short- f  rocked  ; 
she  is  a  mimic,  and, 
as  you  soon  perceive,  a 
clever  one.  She  gives 
personations  of  some 
well  -  known  popular 
music  -  hall  favourites. 
Thus,  she  imitates  Eu- 
gene Stratton  in  his 
"  Lily  of  Laguna,"  and  Happy  Fanny  Fields  in  an  Ameri- 
can-German song.  In  the  latter  character  she  says  to  the 
audience,  "  Why  don't  you  applaud  me  more?  Don't  you 
know  that  the  more  you  applaud  me  the  more  money 


n6        THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


I  make?       And  don't  they  applaud!     The  place  fairly 
rocks  with  laughter  and  hoarse  shouts.     To  this  young 

lady  succeeds  the  Artist  Lightning 

Sketcher — he  is  also  a  ventriloquist. 
He  provides  himself  with  the  fig- 
ures ventriloquists  usually  intro- 
duce into  their  pieces  by  a  very 
simple  device.  He  draws  them  on 
a  large  sheet  of  paper  with  chalks 
of  red.  black,  and  green,  while  you 
look  on.  Next  he  makes  you  a  pic- 
ture of  St.  Peter's  at  Rome  on  a  big 
smoked  plate — and  all  in  a  minute  or  two.  Then  he  does 
something  even  more  ambitious — it  is  his  great  lightning 
picture,  called  'The  Home  of  the  Sea  Gull." 
theTums  There  is  a  large  white  sheet  of  paper  on  a 
board  ;  he  takes  vari<  >us  chalks — vermilion, 
blue,  green,  black,  orange — and  hey !  presto,  there  are 
bine  sky,  green  water,  black  rocks,  white  gulls,  and  a 
black  steamer  (a  Newcastle  boat,  evidently)  belching 
forth  black  smoke,  to  say  nothing  of  a  black  man  in  a 
black  boat!  And  all  in  a  moment.  No  wonder  the  audi- 
ence shouts  its  approval.  This  spurs  the  lightning  artist 
tn  a  Still  More  Amazing  Feat.  Stepping  forward  with  a 
profound  bow,  he  announces  that  he  will,  in  a  couple  of 
moments,  without  rubbing  out  a  single  mark  on  "The 
Home  of  the  Sea  Gull,"  convert  that  masterpiece  into 


AN    EAST    END    MUSIC-HALL  117 

another,  and  very  different,  picture,  entitled  "  A  Summer 
Evening  Walk  in  the  Country."  And  he  does  it!  Won- 
derful man !  Again  flash  the  chalks  of  vermilion,  blue, 
green,  black,  orange.  The  blue  sky  is  now  gorgeous  with 
the  splendours  of  a  dying  sunset ;  the  green  water  becomes 
green  earth ;  the  black  rocks  are  transformed  into  black 
trees;  the  black  steamboat,  and  the  black  man,  and  the 
black  boat,  are  replaced  by  black  trees  with  black  foliage; 
and  the  white  gulls  roost  under  cover  of  the  black  leaves 
also.  Finally,  a  touch  or  two,  and  there  is  a  pair  of  lovers 
in  the  foreground.  "  I  calls  that  fine,"  says  a  deep  voice 
behind  you;  "  'e's  clever,  'e  is!"  Every  one  thinks  the 
same,  for  the  lightning  artist  is  awarded  thunderous  ap- 
plause, as  is  only  right  in  the  circumstances.  And  yet 
there  may  be  some  who  say  that  Art  is  not  appreciated  in 
this  country ! 

Now  there  trips  upon  the  platform  another  young  lady. 
First  she  sings  a  song  about  a  young  angel  from  the 
Angel  (at  Isling-t-u-n)  who  had  four  little  angels  at  'ome, 
although  the  gay  young  spark  who  was  courting  her  ap- 
peared to  be  unaware  of  this  extremely  interesting  fact. 
Somehow,  the  fact  does  not  interest  the  audience,  and  the 
song  is  received  with  the  sort  of  silence  that  is  audible 
half  a  mile  away.  '  Ain't  no  good,"  says  the  deep  voice 
in  the  rear;  'she'll  'ave  to  go!"  Poor  girl!  But  her 
second  turn  is  a  dance,  and  this  is  received  with  consider- 
able favour,  so  perhaps  she  will  be  kept  on  after  all.     To 


u8        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

fail  at  even  an  East  End  hall  must  be  a  terrible  business 
for  an  artiste;  it  means,  it  it  means  anything,  the  streets, 

starvation,  death.  While  your  mind  may,  per- 
theBest"         haps,  run  on  in  this  melancholy  fashion  a  lion 

comique  puts  in  an  appearance,  and  your 
thoughts  are  whirled  away.  The  lion  comique  is  nothing 
if  not  immensely  patriotic.  In  an  enormous  voice  he 
shouts  that  King  Edward  is  "  one  of  the  best"  of  kings ; 
is  a  second  verse  he  yells  that  Lord  Charles  Beresford  is 
"one  of  the  best"  in  the  navy;  in  a  third  that  General 
Buller  is  "  one  of  the  best"  in  the  army — all  of  which 
statements  are  uproariously  welcomed.  This  patriotic 
ditty  is  followed  by  a  sentimental  song,  "  When  the  Chil- 
dren are  All  in  Bed,"  and  it  is  keenly  appreciated.  The 
audience,  led  by  the  first  violin,  who  plays  and,  at  the  same 
time,  sings  the  air  with  all  the  strength  of  his  lungs,  takes 
up  the  chorus  with  might  and  main.  For  your  East 
Ender  loves  a  sentimental  song  nearly  as  much  as  he  loves 
his  beer. 

And  now  there  comes  the  chief  turn  on  the  programme 
— it  is  a  Sketch,  by  the  Lynn  family — Brother  Lynn,  so 
to  speak,  and  two  Sisters  Lynn,  though  the  family  resem- 
blance between  them  all  is  remarkably  faint.  The  two 
ladies  prove  to  be  the  same  who  appeared  in  the  Abusive 
Duet  of  which  "  Charlie"  was  the  subject  a  little  while 
back.  Mr.,  or  Brother,  Lynn,  is  new  to  you.  The  su- 
perior  shop-assistant    is   now     '  Mrs.    Guzzle,"    and    the 


TME:    • 


AN    EAST    END    MUSIC-HALL 


121 


factory-girl  is  her  servant,  "  Sloppy."     Brother  Lynn  is 
"  Mr.  Guzzle,"  Mr.  Peter  Guzzle.     These  are 

The  Guzzle 

the  dramatis  person  cc.     When  the  curtain  goes  Family 

Sketch. 

up  Mrs.  Guzzle  is  bewailing  to  Sloppy  the  sad 

fact  that  her  Peter  no  longer  comes  home  early  o'  nights, 


and  that  when  he  does  come  he  is  invariably  the  worse, 
much  the  worse,  for  "booze."  They  take  counsel  to- 
gether as  to  what  is  to  be  done  to  win  Guzzle  from  his 
evil  ways,  and  they  hit  on  a  great  idea.  This  is  nothing 
less  than  to  lie  in  wait  for  Peter  this  very  evening  as  ever 


122        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

was,  get  him  to  bed,  and  then  pretend  when  he  wakes  up 
that  he  is  dead — as  dead  as  a  red  herring,  or  anything 
else  that  is  most  emphatically  dead.  Peter  arrives  upon 
the  scene  very  drunk — he  explains  that  he  has  been  pre- 
siding at  a  teetotal  meeting,  and  that  it  has  gone  slightly 
to  his  head.  He  is  got  off  to  bed,  but  in  a  surprisingly 
short  time  he  reappears  attired  in  his  nightshirt,  which  is 
a  commodious  garment,  whereunto  is  attached  an  enor- 
mous frill.    He  announces  that  he  is  come  in  search  of  the 

'  water-bottle,"  a  statement  which  the  audience  receives 
with  a  yell  of  derision.  And  now  enter  Sloppy,  who  with 
tears  (perhaps  they  keep  her  from  seeing  her  master) 
laments  the  death  of  '  poo'  mahster,"  but  is  inclined  to 
rejoice  that  her  missus  is  rid  of  such  a  scamp.  "  It  won't 
be  long  before  she  marries  agin.  There  was  that  'and- 
some  young  feller  that  admired  'er  sech  a  lot — o'  course, 
they'll  make  a  match  of  it !"  And  so  on.  Guzzle  listens 
in  amazement,  exclaiming  that  he  is  not  dead,  but  Sloppy 
makes  as  if  Guzzle  did  not  exist.  So  much  so  that  Mr. 
Guzzle  begins  to  think  there  must  be  some  truth  in  what 
she  says — he   is  dead,   and  he  howls   out   the  question, 

'  Where  am  I — in  Heaven,  or  in  the  Other  Place?" 
(Great  laughter. ) 

The  action  is  advanced  another  stage  by  the  arrival 
of  the  undertaker  to  measure  Guzzle  for  his  coffin.  The 
undertaker,  yon  see  without  any  wonder  whatever,  is  no 
other  than  Mrs.  Guzzle.    Assisted  by  Sloppy,  they  lay  out 


AN    EAST    END    MUSIC-HALL  123 

Mr.  Guzzle  on  a  sofa — Guzzle  keeps  on  protesting  he  is 
not  dead,  but  that  makes  no  difference — and  measure 
him.  '  He's  the  sort  o'  size,"  says  the  pretty  undertaker, 
otherwise  the  superior  shop-assistant,  otherwise  Airs. 
Guzzle,  with  business-like  grasp  of  the  situation  and  of 
Peter.  "  that  we  keep  in  stock.  I'll  send  the  coffin  round 
at    once.      He'll    look    pretty    well    laid    out." 

Guzzle 

(Peter   groans.)      But,    hold,    something   has  and  the 

undertaker. 

been  forgotten.  Peter  died  suddenly,  it  seems, 
and  the  circumstances  are  a  little  suspicious.  It  is  neces- 
sary, therefore,  that  there  shall  be  an  inquest  by  the  coro- 
ner— Peter  will  have  to  be  "opened  up."  (Loud  and 
long-continued  shrieks  from  Peter:  "Cut  up!  Opened 
up!  I  won't  be  cut  up!  I  won't  be  opened  up!  I'm  not 
dead  !  O  !  what  a  bad  dream  !  What  an  awful  night- 
mare!") Then  Sloppy  and  the  undertaker  talk  about  the 
"  dear  departed."  Sloppy  tells  him  that  her  master  was 
a  good  'usband  to  missus  until  he  took  to  bettin'  and 
drinkin'.  Well,  Guzzle  was  dead  now  ("  I  must  be 
dead!"  cries  Guzzle,  with  sudden  conviction),  and  missus 
would  soon  console  herself — "  A  'andsome  woman  like  'er 
won't  have  to  wear  the  wilier  long."  (Peter  groans  dis- 
mally. )  Exit  undertaker,  promising  to  send  the  coffin  at 
once. 

Meanwhile  there  is  a  noise  outside,  and  Sloppy  remarks 
that  must  be  the  coroner  come  to  hold  the  inquest,  and 
he  must  be  sharpening  up  his  instruments  to  "  open  up 


124        THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

mahster."  (  Peter  shrieks,  howls,  kicks,  tears  his  hair — 
the  audience  shouting  with  inextinguishable  laughter  the 
while.)  But  the  coroner  never  comes  upon  the  stage; 
instead  of  him  enter  the  Devil  to  take  Peter  off  to  the 

Other  Place.  (  The  Devil,  you  will  notice,  has 
De\en  on  this  occasion  a  trim  female  figure — in  fact, 

that  of  Mrs.  Guzzle.)  The  Devil  is  too  much 
for  Peter,  and  he  (  Peter)  goes  off  into  a  fit.  When  he 
comes  out  of  it,  his  wife  and  Sloppy  are  by  his  side.  He 
tells  them  he's  had  a  frightful  nightmare,  but  that,  thank 
goodness,  it  was  nothing  else.  '  Do  you  know,"  he  says 
confidingly.  "  I  dreamt  I  was  dead,  and  that  the  under- 
taker came  to  measure  me  for  my  coffin,  and  that  there 
was  to  be  an  inquest,  and  that  1  was  to  be  opened  up,  and 
that  the  Devil — but  it  was  all  a  bad  dream!  Well,  my 
dear,  it's  taught  me  a  lesson.  I'll  never  bet  or  go  to  the 
Pig  and  Whistle  again."  Brother  Lynn  and  the  two  Sis- 
ters Lynn  now  join  hands,  while  the  crowd  rocks  and 
reels  with  tumultuous  cheers,  hand-clappings,  and  cat- 
calls. The  Lynn  Family,  or  Guzzle  Family,  as  you  like  it, 
has  scored  a  huge  and  gorgeous  success! 

To  them  succeed  acrobats,  who  appear  to  think  that 
jumping  in  and  out  of  barrels,  blindfolded,  is  quite  a  usual 
way  of  'getting  around."— but  by  this  time  you  have 
seen  enough.  You  abandon  your  fauteuil,  get  out  of  the 
smoke-laden,  beer-stained  atmosphere,  and  pass  out  into 
the  street. 


CHAPTER    VIII 


EARLS    COURT 


"  Gauntlet  .  .  .  therefore  proposed  to  pass  part  of  the  evening  at 
the  puhlic  entertainments  in  Alarylebone  Gardens,  which  were  at 
that  time  frequented  by  the  best  company  in  town." 

Smollett,  Peregrine  Pickle. 

The  congeries  of  shows,  entertainments,  shops,  and 
exhihitions  of  one  sort  or  another,  compendiously  known 
as  Earl's  Court,  is  a  prominent  feature  of  the  Night  Side 
of  London  from  May  to  October.  In  some  measure  it 
may  be  regarded  as  a  descendant  of  those  "  public  enter- 
tainments" to  which  Smollett  referred  in  the  last  chapter 
of  the  evergreen  Peregrine  Pickle,  and  which  is  quoted 
above.  Another  of  its  prototypes  was  famous  Vanxhall, 
and  another,  nearer  our  own  time,  Cremorne.  It  may  be 
doubted,  however,  if  any  of  these  places,  not  excepting 
Vanxhall,  approached  Earl's  Court  in  size,  or  splendour, 
or  popularity,  or  afforded  anything  like  the  same  variety. 
Earl's  Court  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  a 
rival  at  present.     But  when  Cremorne  was  at  A  u"iciue 

place. 

the  height  of  its  vogue,  it  had  competitors  in 
North    Woolwich    Gardens   and    Highbury    Barn.      The 
Crystal  Palace  does  not  draw  the  crowd  as  does  Earl's 

125 


126        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

Court,  nor  does  the  Aquarium,  in  spite  of  its  boast  that 
at  no  other  place  can  so  many  shows  be  seen.  The  vast 
extent  of  Earl's  Court,  the  diversity  of  the  attractions  of 
all  kinds  it  furnishes,  the  picturesqueness  of  its  grounds, 
its  myriads  of  coloured  lights,  its  magnificent  music,  and 
other  things,  have  given  it  a  unique  place  in  the  life  of  the 
town.  Of  a  summer's  evening  there  is  no  more  agreeable 
lounge  to  be  found  anywhere,  nor  is  there  anything  at  all 
like  it  in  any  other  city  of  the -world.  It  seems  strange 
that  there  is  not  something  of  the  sort  in  Paris,  but  there 
is  not. 

Earl's  Court  is  by  way  of  combining  instruction  with 
amusement.  It  calls  itself  primarily  an  Exhibition — 
Earl's  Court  Exhibition.  Each  year  there  is  a  different 
Exhibition.  One  year  the  subject,  so  to  speak,  was  the 
Empire  of  India;  in  another,  the  Victorian  Era;  in  a 
third,  Greater  Britain ;  last  year  there  was  a  Military 
Exhibition;  this  year  (1902)  there  is  a  Coronation  Ex- 
hibition— a  name,  rather  curiously,  which  covers  a  repro- 
duction of  the  Paris  Exposition  of  last  year.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  institute  any  comparison  between  these  various 
exhibitions,   but   the   feature   which   has   been 

On 

exhibitions.  common  to  them  all  is  what  may  be  called  the 
spectacular.  The  Director-General  of  Earl's 
Court  (a  native  of  Buda-Pest)  is  a  man  who  has  the  veri- 
table Oriental  love  of  gorgeous  display  and  sensuous 
magnificence.     He  has  a  positive  genius  for  contriving  a 


EARL'S    COURT  129 

great  spectacle.  To  his  native  fondness  for  it  he  adds  a 
wide  experience  gained  in  the  United  States,  particularly 
at  the  World's  Fair  in  Chicago,  where  his  spectacle  of 

'  America"  is  said  to  have  had  the  biggest  artistic  and 
financial  success  of  any  show  in  history.  He  is  at  his  best, 
however,  when  he  is  doing  something  relating  to  the  East 
— as,  for  instance,  in  his  Exhibition  of  India,  with  its 
prodigality  of  types,  its  vivid  contrasts,  its  blazing  col- 
ours, he  fairly  revelled  in  producing  striking  and  even 
extraordinary  effects.  It  will  perhaps  be  asked  if  any  one 
learns  much,  or  even  a  little,  from  these  exhibitions.  It 
does  not  answer  the  question,  but  there  is  very  small  doubt 
that  not  one  in  a  thousand  goes  to  Earl's  Court  to  get 
knowledge  or  information.  Yet  knowledge  and  informa- 
tion are  there — if  anybody  wants  'em;  but  people  hate 
being  "  informed" — they  go  to  Earl's  Court  to  be  amused, 
to  see  the  Show,  to  talk,  to  hear  the  music,  to  flirt,  to 

'pick  something  up"  (not  necessarily  information). 

Earl's  Court  is  open  all  day  long,  but  it  is  in  the  evening 
when  most  people  go  there.  And  it  is  in  the  evening  that 
you  had  better  go,  though  you  will  not  find  one  evening 
enough  to  take  it  all  in.  If  you  go  during  the  daytime  you 
will  see  far  too  well  how  the  effects  are  obtained ;  night 
throws  mystery  and  illusion  over  the  scene,  which  are  en- 
hanced rather  than  dispelled  by  the  multitudinous  col- 
oured lights.  Perhaps  you  are  too  blase  to  have  any 
other  feeling  than  that  you  are  looking  on  at  an  unusually 

9 


130 


THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


Fail  y-land. 


big  pantomime;  if,  however,  this  is  not  the  case,  you  may 
la-  inclined  to  sympathise  with  the  little  country  cousin 
\vh< »  says  enthusiastically  that  it  is  "  like  fairy-land."  And 
the  particular  entrance  to  the  Exhibition  which 
is  most  likely  to  help  you  to  this  point  of  view 
is  that  in  Earl's  Court  Road.  For  there,  when  you  have 
paid  your  shilling-,  and  passed  within  the  turnstiles, 
von  soon  come  upon  the  most  fairy-like  place  in  the 
whole  Show.  Here  in  the  centre  is  a  lake,  and  round  its 
edge  run  these  coloured  lamps,  whose  gleams  are  reflected 
1>\    the   water.      At  one  end   is  a  grotto;    in  the  midst 

of  it  is  a  bridge;  along 
it  glide  swans  that 
turn  out  to  be  small 
electric  launches.  At 
one  side  of  it  there 
stands  a  Canadian 
water-chute,  down  the 
slope  of  which  sweep, 
with  what  seems  seems 
terrific  speed,  flat- 
bottomed  boats  into  the  lake.  The  people  in  these 
boats  generally  diversify  the  proceedings  by  doing  a  little 
shouting  and  screaming,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  they  are 
as  safe  in  these  canoes  or  skiffs  as  if  they, were  on  shore. 
From  beyond  the  bridge  comes  the  music  of  a  band. 
Round  the  lake  there  runs  a  "  Chinese  dragon"  railway. 


"M     Bv 


EARL'S    COURT 


J31 


Past  the  bridge,  on  the  left  side,  is  a  covered  building  con- 
taining exhibits  of  divers  kinds ;  on  the  right  is  another, 
also  full  of  "  things."  It  is  by  passing  through  the  build- 
ing on  the  left  that  you  reach  a  bridge  which  takes  you 
over  the  tops  of  some  houses  to  a  flight  of  stairs,  passing 
down  which  you  go  into  another  part,  where  are  the 
theatre,  picture-gallery,  and  other  places  of  interest  or 
entertainment. 

Opposite  the  theatre  is  the  gateway  into  a  large  and 
handsome  square,  which  is  lined  with  shops  and  booths 
of  all  kinds.  In  the  centre  is  the 
inevitable  bandstand,  and  about  it 
are  chairs  for  those  disposed  to  sit 
and  listen  to  the  band.  This  is  per- 
haps the  quietest  part  of  Earl's 
Court,  and  if  you  love  music  more 
than  shows  this  is  the  spot  for  you. 
At  the  far  end  of  the  square  is  an- 
other gateway,  at  the  further  side  of 
which  you  will  find  more  shows — 
mostly  of  the  side-show  variety,  but 
generally  with  some  relation  to  the  special  exhibition 
being  held.  Thus,  in  the  India  Exhibition  there  were  shows 
in  this  part  of  the  place  of  Indian  jugglers,  musicians,  ser- 
pent-charmers, and  the  like.  Beyond  these  shows  you  will 
come  to  what  has  long  been  the  most  striking  feature  of 
Earl's  Court 


-the  Big  Wheel. 


But  on  the  Big  \\  neel 


13- 


THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


sentence  has  been  passed ;  it  does  not  draw  the  crowd  as  it 

f<  irmerly  did,  and  something  new  must  take  its  place.  And 

yet  it  seems  rather  a  pity,  for  by  day  you  could 

I1il\^k   i        s?et  from  the  top  of  it  the  finest  view  of  Lon- 

Big  \\  heel.  o  i 

don,  and  at  night  there  was  to  be  seen  a 
strange  and  curious  night-light  picture  of  part  of  London 
— especially  of  the  grounds  of  Earl's  Court  itself — which 
was  certainly  very  attractive.  But  the  public  have  lost 
interest  in  it :   it  is  played  out,  and  it  must  go.     What  will 

become  of  it?  It  is  not  the  sort  of 
thing  that  can  easily  drop  out  of 
sight.  Well,  if  you  have  not  yet 
been  "  up"  in  the  Big  Wheel,  you 
should  make  a  point  of  going — if 

-  for  no  other  object  than  to  see  how 

-  Earl's  Court  looks  from  '  'way  up 
there."  Should  it  be  your  luck  that 
the  Wheel  sticks  on  your  trip,  and 

you  have  to  spend  a  few  hours  in  one  of  the  carriages 
(this  has  happened  to  other  people  more  than  once), 
why,  then,  the  management  will  see  that  you  don't  lose 
by  it. 

From  the  Big  Wheel  you  go  on  through  some  gardens 

to  yet  another  square,  with  of  course  another  bandstand 

in  the  midst  thereof.    Before  you  arrive  in  this  square  you 

will   notice,   as   you   walk  along,   that  on  one  side  is   a 

'mller-coaster"  or  switchback,  and  as  the  cars  thunder 


To-  ^ 


EARL'S    COURT  133 

up  and  down  the  thing,  you  will  hear  the  laughter  and 
shrieks  of  the  passengers  mixed  with  the  noise.  But  the 
fickle  public  are  not  so  keen  on  the  switchback  as  they 
used  to  be,  and  the  cars  do  not  run  with  any  remarkable 
frequency.  But  now  you  are  in  this  third  and  last  square. 
In  some  respects  it  is  the  most  important,  for  here  is  the 
great  dining-hall,  where  you  may  dine  with  some  sump- 
tuousness,  or.  if  you  happen  to  be  a  member  of  the  Wel- 
come Club,  whose  abode  is  also  in  this  part  of  Earl's 
Court,  you  may  have  your  dinner  there — afterward  sit- 
ting out  for  your  coffee  and  liqueurs  within  the  Club 
enclosure,  which  forms  one  side  of  this  square.  The 
Welcome  Club  has  quite  a  large  number  of 
members,  drawn  from  all  parts  of  the  town,  ^ciutf 

but  naturally  it  is  most  generally  patronised  by 
those  living  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood.  The  Club 
is  closely  connected  with  the  Exhibition,  and  of  course  is 
shut  up  when  Earl's  Court  is  closed.  The  Welcome  Club 
is.  you  might  say,  the  loungiest  lounge  in  the  place.  And 
in  addition  to  the  Welcome  Club,  and  the  dining-room, 
and  the  bandstand,  there  are  in  this  square  a  theatre,  and  a 
diorama,  and  the  entrance  to  a  covered  way,  which  leads 
you,  through  an  avenue  of  shops,  to  that  point  in  your 
journey  from  which  you  started  on  leaving  the  lake. 
Well,  you  will  have  heard  some  fine  music,  and  seen  some 
strange  sights,  to  say  nothing  of  beholding  an  enormous 
number  of  people.      The  last-named  hold  prettv  well  as 


134 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


many  types  and  characters  as  are  to  be  found  in  London, 
whether  in  its  drawing-rooms  or  in  its  streets.  And  the 
stud)'  of  types  and  characters  is  always  interesting — 
when  not  too  personally  conducted.     Verb.  sap. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE    MASKED-BALL 

'  The  midnight   masquerade." — Goldsmith. 
"  Adventures   are   to   the   adventurous." — Disraeli. 

There  were  times  when  the  masked-ball  was  one  of 
the  great  features  of  the  Night  Side  of  London,  but  it 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  a  great  feature  of  it  now.  The 
public  masquerade,  the  masked-ball,  the  '  ridotto"  (as 
it  was  named  at  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
so  as  to  shock  public  sentiment  less),  the  bal-masque, 
came  to  England  in  the  time  of  that  gay  dog,  Charles  II. 
It  flourished  more  or  less  in  the  days  when  George  the 
First  was  king,  but  in  1723  it  was  put  down  by  a  discern- 
ing government.  However,  it  did  not  long  remain  sup- 
pressed, and  historic  Vauxhall  was  the  scene 
of  many  a  lively  masquerade.  Vauxhall  had  maLS^ld.^s 
its  day  (and  its  night  too),  and  passed  away. 
Forty  or  fifty  years  ago  the  masked-ball  came  into  fash- 
ion again.  From  a  book  written  at  that  time,  it  seems 
that  masked-balls  were  held  at  the  Holborn  Casino  (the 
Holborn  Restaurant  replaced  it  later),  at  Covent  Garden, 
at  the  Alhambra,  at  Highbury  Barn,  and  at  Drurv  Lane 

135 


136        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

— and  they  don't  appear  to  have  differed  very  strikingly 
from  those  of  the  present  period,  such  as  yon  will  behold 
in  the  winter  at  Covent  Garden.  Masked-balls  fell  into 
bad  odour,  and  almost  or  altogether  ceased  in  London. 
S<  une  ten  years  aeo  or  so  thev  were  revived  at  Covent 
( larden.  From  October  to  the  commencement  of  the 
Opera  season  there  is  a  ball  once  a  fortnight.  Suppose 
you  take  one  in  ? 

Now  for  a  night  of  '  fun" !  you  may  have  dined  at 
the  Continental — if  so,  it  is  quite  on  the  cards  that  some 
of  the  ladies  you  may  have  seen  there  will  be  present  later 
at  Covent  Garden — or  elsewhere.  You  perhaps  took  a 
look  in  at  the  Empire  or  the  Alhambra,  or  at  some  other 
music-hall,  by  way  of  passing  the  time.  For,  although 
the  ball  is  advertised  to  begin  before  eleven,  the  dancers 
do  not  arrive  in  any  numbers  till  after  midnight.  So  you, 
too,  will  not  care  to  reach  the  theatre  much  sooner.  You 
can  go  masked  if  you  like;    you  may  don  a 

Present-day  i  r  , 

version.  domino   or   some    fancy-dress   costume;     you 

may  go  in  evening-dress  simply — these  are 
matters,  you  will  find,  that  are  left  to  yourself.  Very 
much  so,  in  fact,  for  you  will  see,  by  and  by,  that  dancers 
will  be  at  the  ball  who  haven't  even  put  on  evening-dress, 
but  who  have  hidden  their  morning  attire  under  a  dom- 
ino. Well,  about  twelve  you  get  into  a  hansom.  Perhaps 
you  are  with  a  friend;  if  not,  you  will  have  no  trouble  in 
picking  up  one,  if  you  want  to,  in  the  ballroom.     It  may 


THE    MASKED-BALL  137 

be  that  this  is  the  first  Covent  Garden  ball  yon  have  "  as- 
sisted" at,  and  when  yon  have  alighted  from  your  cab, 
curiosity  makes  you  stand  in  the  vestibule  or  hall,  just 
inside  the  door,  and  watch  the  people  coming  in.  In  some 
respects  this,  you  may  find,  is  not  the  least  interesting 
part  of  the  entertainment. 

You  take  your  stand  near  the  door  by  which  admit- 
tance is  gained  into  the  ballroom.  On  your  right  are  the 
steps  up  to  the  boxes,  where  also  is  the  ladies'  dressing- 
room.  Here,  then,  in  the  hall  you  will  be  able  to  observe 
the  fair  creatures  as  they  arrive,  and  before  they  have 
finally  arrayed  themselves  for  conquest.  On  your  right 
also  is  an  office  where  you  can  get  "  masks,  dominoes, 
gloves" — as  you  hear  from  some  one  who  shouts  out  the 
information  from  within.  To  your  left  is  a  pay-box,  and 
opposite  it  is  another.  There  is  also  a  gentleman's  cloak- 
room. The  price  of  admission  to  the  ballroom 
is  a  oruinea,  but  if  you  merelv  wish  to  look  on,  °PJZl' 

o  *>  j  pays. 

you  can  get  a  seat  in  the  gallery  for  a  few 
shillings.  If  von  desire  to  be  very  extravagant,  you  can 
treat  yourself  to  a  box,  but  that  will  run  you  into  several 
guineas.  Suppose  you  pay  your  guinea.  If  you  intend 
to  stand  in  the  hall  some  minutes  watching  the  people 
come  in,  you  will  feel  more  comfortable  if  you  pay  at 
once.  For  a  few  paces  from  you  there  is  a  sergeant  of 
police  from  Bow  Street  (which  is  just  across  the  way) 
and  also  an  ordinary  constable,  and  they  are  sure  to  turn 


138        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

a  very  keen  eye  on  you  if  they  see  you  loitering  here. 
But  if  you  have  a  ticket,  you  can  defy  them  with  the  ex- 
planation that  you  are  waiting  for  a  friend. 

For  half  an  hour  you  have  seen,  let  us  say,  thirty  or 
forty  people  step  into  the  vestibule.  Sometimes  they  have 
come  in  couples,  a  man  and  a  woman ;  again,  it  may  be, 
that  two  or  three  ladies,  sans  cavaliers,  put  in  an  appear- 
ance, or  two  or  three  young  men  without  any  ladies. 
When  a  man  and  a  woman  come  in  together,  you  may 
observe  that  the  lady  is  nearly  always  in  a  mask.  When 
the  ladies  come  in  by  themselves  (generally  without  pre- 
tence at  any  disguise)  you  notice  that  they  stand  about  in 
the  hall  for  some  time.     If  you  spy  on  them  closely,  you 

may  or  may  not  be  surprised  ( it  will  depend 
threnShoid."       on  y°ur  knowledge  of  life)   to  see  that  these 

ladies  are  reduced  to  the  unpleasantness  of 
buying  their  own  tickets.  Should  your  sense  of  gallantry 
carry  you  so  far  as  to  cause  you  to  desire  to  be  their 
banker,  you  will  find  astonishingly  few  obstacles  placed 
in  your  way;  on  the  contrary,  every  encouragement 
will  be  smiled  upon  you.  But  imagine  you  do  not  suc- 
cumb to  the  temptation — you  are  not  yet  tired  of  watch- 
ing. You  turn  to  the  group  of  young  men  who 
have  just  got  down  from  a  pair  of  hansoms.  They  are 
very,  very  young;  youth,  and  the  high  spirits  of  youth, 
are  written  large  upon  them;  they  are  a  little  flushed,  a 
little  noisy,  a  little  easy  in  their  gestures.     Older  men 


THE    MASKED-BALL  139 

come  in  too ;  one — as  likely  as  not — or  two  are  old 
enough  to  be  the  fathers  of  the  youngsters  you  have  had 
your  eyes  on  a  moment  ago. 

About  half-past  twelve,  and  on  until  half-past  one 
o'clock,  there  is  a  great  quickening,  a  rush.  People  begin 
and  continue  to  arrive  in  large  and  small  parties,  and  for 
an  hour  the  vestibule  is  crowded  with  fresh  arrivals.  In- 
deed, it  is  so  full  that  you  may  find  yourself  in  the  way. 
So  in  a  few  minutes  you  give  up  your  ticket  and  pass 
through  the  door,  and,  before  ascending  the  stairs  that 
lead  you  up  to  the  ballroom,  you  take  a  look  around. 
Here,  in  the  corridor  or  hallway,  there  is  a  bar,  served  by 
maids  adorned  with  ribbons  of  red,  white,  and  blue.  Be- 
yond are  small  tables  "  built  for  two,"  and  you  note  that 
they  are  well  (well,  in  more  senses  than  one)  occupied. 
As  you  glance,  you  see  couples  merrily  supping,  and  you 
hear  the  suggestive  popping  of  corks  and  the 

At  supper. 

fizzle  of  champagne  in  the  glass.  Some  of 
those  at  the  bar  and  at  the  supper-tables  have  their  masks 
on,  but  the  majority,  the  great  majority,  are  disguised 
(the  joke  is  something  of  the  most  ancient)  as  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  You  begin  to  take  in  the  fact  that  a  very 
small  proportion  of  the  dancers  wear  masks,  and  that 
though  a  considerable  percentage  of  the  ladies  are  in 
fancv  dress,  a  still  larger  is  not.  The  authorities  of  the 
place,  to  encourage  the  use  of  fancy  dress,  give  prizes, 
quite  valuable  ones  too,  for  the  best  costumes,  and  you 


i4o        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

mav  be  inclined  to  suspect  that  were  it  not  for  these  in- 
ducements fancy  dress  would  be  at  a  greater  discount 
than  it  is. 

But  all  this  while  music,  delicious  music,  the  music  of 
one  of  the  best  bands  in  England,  for,  probably  enough, 
it  is  Dan  Godfrey's,  has  been  sounding  in  your  ears,  and, 
besides,  you  can  hardly  fail  to  hear  the  tap,  tap,  tapping 
of  little  heels  and  lesser  toes  on  the  floor,  and  the  swish 
or  rustle  of  silken  skirts.  A  picture  is  conjured  up  with 
you,  and  you  proceed  to  verify  it.  So  you  ascend  the 
steps,  and  presently  you  are  in  one  of  the  handsomest  ball- 
rooms in  the  world.  All  the  stalls  and  seats  in  the  im- 
mense amphitheatre  have  been  removed,  with  the  result 

that  there  is  a  splendid  floor-surface  for  the 
ballroom  tripping  of  the  light  fantastic.     The  floor  is 

highly  polished  too,  and  is  in  capital  condition. 
The  place  is  brilliantly  lighted  up,  and  above  the  band- 
stand is  a  pretty  arrangement  of  coloured  lights  in  fes- 
toons from  the  ceiling,  which  have  a  really  charming 
effect.  Perhaps  as  you  enter  there  is  a  pause  between  the 
dances,  and  this  gives  you  a  chance  to  see  what  the 
place  is  like.  Your  glance  sweeps  round  the  magnificent 
room,  and  you  note  that  there  are  hundreds  of  dancers. 
You  also  see  that  many  of  the  boxes  are  full,  though  it 
may  be  there  are  more  empty  ones.  If  it  is  the  first  night 
of  the  masked-ball  season,  all  or  nearly  all  of  them  will 
be  occupied — so  also  on  the  last.     Programme  in  hand, 


THE    MASKED-BALL  141 

you  make  your  way  across  the  floor.  The  next  dance  is 
the  Lancers,  and  you  secure  a  place  near  the  hand,  from 
which  yon  will  be  able  to  get  a  good  view  of  the  scene. 
The  conductor  raises  his  baton,  and  the  band  strikes  up. 
The  piece  they  play,  and  it  is  played  to  admiration,  is  a 
medley  of  light  operatic  airs,  taken  from  a  popular  musi- 
cal comedy  of  the  day. 

The  dancers  quickly  form  up  on  the  floor,  and  they  lose 
no  time  in  getting  to  work.  Unquestionably,  it  is  a  merry 
scene — bright,  sparkling,  picturesque,  but  its  main  fea- 
ture is  that  of  a  sportive  and  not  easily  discouraged  jol- 
lity. There  is  a  good  deal  of  cheerful  noise.  In  some 
sets  the  dance  is  rendered  to  perfection.  And  why  not? 
For  amongst  the  men  and  women  are  some  of  the  best 
performers  in  London.  As  the  dance  proceeds  each  and 
all  abandon  themselves  more  and  more  to  the 

A  dance. 

gay  suggestion  of  the  music,  and  there  is  less 
and  less  of  the  orthodox  drawing-room  style  of  dancing 
to  be  seen.  Here  a  man  dressed  as  a  monk  catches  up  his 
partner  in  his  arms,  and  holding  her  aloft  waltzes 
4  around,"  as  the  Americans  phrase  it.  Another  man, 
in  ordinary  evening-dress,  follows  his  example — there  is 
much  laughter,  for  in  another  moment  he  and  his  partner 
are  sprawling  on  the  floor.  They  pick  themselves  up, 
and  there  is  more  laughter.  Some  of  the  ladies  indulge 
in  a  little  "  high  kicking,'*  and  you  have  seductive 
glimpses  of  flashing,  shapely,  silk-stockinged  legs.     And 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

all  over  the  immense  floor  much  the  same  kind  of  thing 
is  going  on,  but  to  get  a  perfect  view  you  must  go  up  to 
one  of  the  boxes.  And  thither  you  ascend,  and  then  look 
down. 

Again  you  will  undoubtedly  conclude  that  the  scene  is 
a  gay  and  festive  one ;  it  is  full  of  bright  colour,  of  rhyth- 
mical movement.  You  scan  the  various  sets,  and  you 
make  a  catalogue  of  the  costumes.  Here  is  a  4  Type  of 
English  Beauty,"  there  a  "  Shepherdess"  ;  here  "  Pierrot" 
and  "  Pierrette,"  there  the  "  Queen  of  Hearts"  with  the 
"  Knave" ;  here  is  the  "  Emerald  Isle"  in  green  and  gold, 
there  a  "  Chinaman" ;  here  a  "  Courtier  of  Louis  XIV.," 
there  a  "  Page  of  Charles  II." ;  here  is  "  Goosey,  Goosev 
Gander,"  there  a  fat  "  Romeo"  along  with  an  amiable- 
looking  "  Lady  Macbeth";  over  yonder  "  Mephisto"  has 
a  "  Hallelujah  Lassie"  in  his  arms.  And  so  on.  You 
have  no  doubt  been  at  other  fancy-dress  balls. 

The  scene 

from  the  and   you   recognise   in   the   costumes   a   large 

boxes. 

number  of  old  friends.  Amongst  the  dancers 
are  a  few  in  dominoes  and  a  smaller  band  in  masks.  And 
as  the  night  lengthens  out  nearly  all  the  masks  are  re- 
moved. Your  lightly  roving  eye  tells  you  that  there  are 
many  pretty  women  here;  one  or  two  of  them  are  posi- 
tively beautiful.  And  there  are  plenty  of  handsome, 
good-looking  men.  They  all  seem  to  be  happy  and  in 
high  spirits.  All  appear  to  be  having  a  "  high  old  time." 
And  of  course  that  is  exactly  what  they  are  here  for. 


THE   DANCERS   QUICKLY   FORM   UP   ON   THE   FLOOR. 


THE    MASKED-BALL  145 

Black  care,  for  a  few  hours  at  least,  has  ceased  to  sit 
behind  the  horsemen,  so  to  say.  While  you  look  on,  the 
music  comes  to  an  end.  And  now  you  notice  there  is  a 
fresh  excitement  in  the  place.  Those  who  have  entered 
for  the  prizes  given  for  the  best  costumes  now  submit 
themselves  to  the  verdict  of  the  judges.  The  dancers 
form  a  living  lane,  and  up  this  the  contestants  walk, 
amidst  the  freest  of  criticisms  and  no  little  banter  and 
chaff,  to  the  bandstand,  whereon  are  the  judges.  This 
function  is  soon  over.  You  hear  presently  that  the  young 
lady    who    represented    "  Goosey,    Goosey    Gander,"    or 

The  Spider  and  the  Fly,"  or  "  The  Whisper  of  the 
Shell,"  as  the  case  may  be,  has  been  awarded  the  first 
prize,  and  you  can  guess  without  being  told  how  much 
she  is  envied  by  her  less  fortunate  sisters. 

And  now  you  ask  yourself  the  impertinent  question, 
Who  are  all  these  people,  these  votaries  of  pleasure? 
Exactly,  you  tell  yourself,  that  is  who  and  what  they  are 
— the  votaries  of  pleasure.  Amongst  the  men  are  officers 
of  the  army,  men  from  the  Stock  Exchange,  actors,  jour- 
nalists, betting  men,  men  about  town,  young  "  bloods," 
and  hosts  of  men  who  can  only  be  described  as  nonde- 
scripts, except  that  they  are  all  bent  on  seeing 
life  and  resolved  to  quaff  the  purple  cup  to  the  The 

111  dancers. 

dregs.    They  are  all,  you  may  be  sure,  labelled 

'  fast,"  but  for  all  that  most  of  them  are  good  fellows 

enough,  and  it  would  be  a  pretty  big  mistake  to  suppose 

10 


[46        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

tliev  are  all  travelling  post-haste  on  the  highroad  to 
Hades.  And  the  ladies — well,  who  are  they,  and  where 
do  they  come  from?  You  have  seen  what  you  have  seen 
as  you  were  standing  in  the  hall,  and  you  must  have  your 
own  opinion.  Certainly,  as  the  night  wears  on  you  will 
not  have  two  opinions.  The  ladies  for  the  most  part 
belong  to  the  Half- World,  but  there!  you  knew  that 
before.  Still,  if  you  have  ever  been  to  a  bal-masque  in 
Paris,  and  compare  it  with  the  Covent  Garden  variety, 
von  will  acknowledge  that  the  standard  of  conduct  is 
higher  in  England  than  in  France.  Here  there  are  ushers, 
masters  of  ceremonies,  attendants,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
police  in  the  background  of  the  whole  entertainment,  and 
they  take  care  that  a  certain  appearance  of  decorum  is 
maintained. 

Another  dance  succeeds  the  procession  of  those  trying 
for  the  prizes ;  this  time  it  is  a  barn-dance.  The  music 
is  sprightly  and  catchy,  and  every  one  seems  to  enter  into 
the  fun  and  enjoyment  of  the  thing  with  the  utmost  zest. 
Certainly,  it  is  a  gay  and  attractive  picture — the  pretty 
women,  the  young,  handsome  men,  the  dresses,  the  lights, 
the  big  ballroom.  There  is  the  measured  beat,  beat,  beat 
of  dancing  feet  to  the  lively  time,  and  there  is  a  sound  of 
laughter  and  merriment  in  the  pulsing  air.  And  so, 
again,  in  the  next  dance — a  polka,  danced  in  ten  or 
twenty  different  styles,  but  each  and  all  with  frank 
abandon.     It  is  now  getting  on  in  the  night,  or  rather 


THE    MASKED-BALL  147 

morning,  and  each  successive  dance  is  a  shade  more  noisy, 
its  "  time"  a  bit  quicker,  than  its  predecessor.  There  is 
something  infectious  in  the  scene,  and  tired  of  being  a 
mere  onlooker  you  descend  from  the  box  and  mingle  with 
the  people  on  the  floor.  Then  comes  the  "  Cake  Walk" — 
now  all  the  vogue.  But  first  you  take  a  look  at  the  men 
and  women  sitting  and  lounging  about  on  the  seats  and 
benches  at  the  side  of  the  ballroom.  Most  of 
them  are  in  pairs,   though  here  and  there  a  ^ov 

nymph  sits  lonely  and  disconsolate.  Some  of 
these  people  are  evidently  having  a  good  time ;  others 
seem  tired  and  bored.  It  is  much  the  same,  however,  at 
the  Duchess  of  Blankshire's  ball,  where  you  have  seen 
how  pleasure  and  ennui,  joy  and  satiety  meet  together 
and  sit  side  by  side.  'Tis  for  ever  the  same  old  human 
comedy-tragedy !  And  now  you  manage  to  push  your 
way  through  the  crowd  standing  looking  on  at  the 
dancers.  You  reach  the  bandstand  just  as  the  last  strains 
of  the  polka  die  away,  and  you  are  caught  up  by  the  rush 
of  dancers  all  making  for  the  refreshment-tables,  most  of 
which  are  situated  behind  the  bandstand  or  downstairs 
in  the  corridor  you  saw  as  you  came  in. 

You  too  take  a  seat  behind  the  bandstand,  and  call  for 
what  you  will.  The  waiters  are  in  great  demand,  and 
probably  you  may  have  to  wait  some  time  before  you  are 
served.  So  you  gaze  about  you,  and  you  instantly  per- 
ceive that  here  you  are,  in  a  sense  at  any  rate,  "  behind 


148        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


the  scenes."     There  are  perhaps  seventy  or  eighty  people 
at  the  various  tables,  in  twos  or  in  larger  parties.     Fair 
faces  are  a  trifle  flushed ;    painted  cheeks  incline  to  look 
the  least  bit  haggard ;    some  of  the  voices  are  more  than 
common  shrill.     Here  and  there  you  listen  to  some  half- 
hysterical  laughter.     And  yet  it  is  a  fairly  orderly  crowd 
—indeed,   remarkably  so,  considering  all  that  has  been 
going  on.     There  is  a  long  bar,  and  behind  it 
the  scenes.       are  waitresses  (they  look  tired  to  death,  as  no 
doubt  they  are,  poor  things,  for  they  have  been 
standing  there  for  hours),  dressed  like  the  others  in  red, 
white,  and  blue.     In  front  of  it  are  men  and  women  two 

or  three  deep.  And 
now,  as  you  look,  you 
see  something.  There 
is  the  fat  monk  whom 
you  have  observed 
earlier  in  the  evening, 
and  lo  !  the  cord  which 
bound  his  capacious 
waist  (?)  is  removed 
4  by  a  lady,  and  in  a  few 
seconds  a  skipping- 
rope  is  at  work,  and 
first  one,  then  three  or  four  damsels  are  skipping  for  all 
they  are  worth,  their  skirts  tucked  up  or  gathered  up 
around  them,   so  that  you  can   see  their  stockings  and 


Behind  ■  The 


THE    MASKED-BALL 


149 


other  articles  of  attire — which  you  do  not  generally  see; 

let  us  put  it  in  that  way,   and  leave  something  to  the 

imagination.      But  this  phase  of  the  ball  does  not  last 

long — if  you   are  quite  human    it    is   just   possible  you 

think  it  does  not  last  long  enough.     An  attendant  comes 

up  and  confiscates  the 

skipping-rope !       You 

turn    away,    and    now 

something    else    meets 

your  view.     Just  under 

the    palm    in    a    corner 

is    a    little    party  —  a 

merry  little  party  it  is. 

There    are    two    girls 

got     up     as     "  coons," 

and    they    are    dressed 

in    the   white    "  pants" 

and       the       sailor-like 

upper      garment      you 

see  in  the  music-halls. 

There     are     two     men 

with  them;    there  is  a 


COVENT   GARDEN   BALL   GIRLS. 


a  running  fire  of  chaff,  and  in  a  twinkling  one  of  the  coons 
is  taken  up  from  the  floor  and  deposited  in  the  lap  of  one 
of  the  men.  He  proceeds  to  "  cuddle"  her  in  the  most  un- 
blushing manner,  a  process  which  appears  to  meet  with 
her  entire  approval.     An  attendant  passes  by,  but  he  does 


150        THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

not  see,  or  he  pretends  not  to  see,  and  the  coon  remains  in 
the  arms  of  her  lover — is  he  her  lover?  Well,  perhaps  he 
is;  at  any  rate,  that  is  the  character  in  which  he  chooses 
to  appear  at  the  hall  behind  the  scenes !  And  there  are 
other  equally  suggestive  pictures  to  be  witnessed  here. 

The  night  is  getting  older;  dance  succeeds  dance,  and 
then  comes  the  distribution  of  the  prizes  to  the  successful 
contestants.  It  may  be  that  people  are  getting  rather 
tired  of  the  whole  thing,  for  it  is  now  past  four 
o'clock,  and  the  giving  of  the  prizes  causes  little  or 
no    excitement.      Then    there    are    more    dances;     with 

some,  hilarity  is  at  its  height ! 
Vive  la  bagatelle,  vivc  la  joie! 
At  five  o'clock  there  is  a  last 
dance,  and  the  thing  comes  to 
an  end  with  "  God  save  the  King!" 
You  get  your  wraps,  and  then 
you  think  of  breakfast,  or  "  some- 
thing to  eat."  Covent  Garden  is  near,  and  you  know 
that  its  early  market-folk  were  there  with  their  flowers 
and  fruit  and  vegetables  two  or  three  hours  ago,  and  you 
also  know  that  there  are  several  places  of  "  entertainment 
for  man  and  beast"  open.     To  the  most  fa- 

After  v 

the  i.aii—         mous  of  them  all  you  wend  your  way,  in  com- 

breakfast. 

pany  with  some  other  revellers  of  the  night. 
You  come  on  a  breakfast-room,  where  you  can  have 
kidneys  and  bacon  or  some  other  dish.     And  here  you  see 


LAST   WALTZ. 


THE    MASKED-BALL 


I51 


the  last  of  the  masked-ball.  You  sit  down  at  table,  and 
your  vis-a-vis  is  a  young  lady  dressed  as  a  vivandiere, 
and  beside  her  is  a  Spanish  dancer.  Not  far  off  is  a 
young  gentleman,  and  you  notice  he  has  enjoyed  the  ball 
not  wisely  but  too  well.  And  the  talk  you  listen  to  is  not 
particularly  edifying!  But  everything  comes  to  an  end. 
Finally,  you  get  into  your  cab  and  driye  away.  If  you 
are  wise  you  driye  away  alone  or  with  a  male  friend. 
"  Dinna  forget." 


CHAPTER    X 

THE    SHILLING    HOP 

"'.    .     .    This   manly,   masterful   seizure   by   the   waist,   this   lifting 
almost  off  the  feet,  this  whirl  round  and  round  to  the  music.   ..." 

Besant,  All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men. 

One  of  the  pleasantest  and  at  the  same  time  most 
wholesome  features  of  the  Night  Side  of  London  is  the 
Shilling  Hop.  Some  forty  or  fifty  years  ago  London  was 
surrounded  with  places  where  dancing  was  carried  on, 
and  for  the  most  part  these  were  open-air  places ;  hut  they 
have  pretty  well  disappeared.  You  will  see  on  Bank  Holi- 
days 'Arry  and  'Arriet  dancing  on  Hampstead  Heath,  at 
the  Crystal  Palace,  at  Alexandra  Park,  and  elsewhere, 
just  as  you  will  see  children  and  young  girls  dancing  in 
the  streets  to  the  music  of  the  organ-ginders.  But  it  is 
at  the  Shilling  Hops,  held  in  various  parts  of 
TownHaii.  *'ie  town,  that  you  will  behold  the  most  genu- 
ine devotion  to  the  dance.  At  one  hall  alone, 
Holborn  Town  Hall,  there  are  three  of  these  "  Cinder- 
ellas"  every  week  during  the  winter,  and  many  hundreds 
of  people  take  part  in  each  of  them.     Of  course,  these 

modest  entertainments  are  very  different  from  the  great 
152 


THE    SHILLING    HOP  153 

organised  balls,  of  which  there  are  a  vast  number  given 
every  winter — and  also  in  the  "  Season"  :  balls  national, 
such  as  that  known  as  the  Caledonian  held  at  the  White- 
hall Rooms,  where  royalty  has  been  known  to  appear  in 
Highland  costume,  or  like  that  given  at  the  German  Gym- 
nasium in  St.  Pancreas  Road,  or  balls  given  by  clubs  and 
societies  and  "  Orders."  These  Shilling  Hops  are  quite 
informal,  quite  humble  in  comparison  with  even  the  least 
conspicuous  of  these  affairs,  but  for  all  that  you  see  some 
of  the  very  best  dancing  in  London  at  them.  Here  are 
none  of  the  fastidious  men,  the  despair  of  hostesses,  who 
can't  or  won't  dance. 

You  shall  o-o  to  one  at  Holborn  Town  Hall ;  it  may  be 
on  a  Monday,  Thursday,  or  Saturday  evening,  just  as  it 
suits  you,  for  there  is  a  Shilling  Hop  every  week  on  each 
of  these  evenings,  or  very  nearly  so,  all  through  the  long 
winter  months.  As  you  enter  you  pay  your  shilling  to  a 
young  lady,  who  probably  is  a  daughter  of  the  Professor 
of  Dancing  under  whose  auspices  the  Hop  is  given.  You 
receive  a  card  of  admittance,  on  one  side  of  which  is  the 
programme  of  the  dances ;  as  you  glance  over  it  you  see 
the  programme,  so  far  as  the  dances  are  concerned,  is  not 
very  different  from  that  you  held  in  your  hand  at  the 
Duchess  of  Blankshire's  famous  ball ;  there  is  much  the 
same  procession  or  alternation  of  waltz,  lancers,  waltz, 
barn-dance,  waltz,  as  there  was  at  her  Grace's  big  dance. 
You  pass  up  the  uncarpeted  stairs.     You  arrive  during 


154        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

one  of  the  intervals  between  the  dances,  and  the  hall  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs  is  crowded  with  young"  men  and 
maidens.       You    don't    notice    many    elderly 
landing.  people  amongst  them — there  are  a   few,   and 

you  rather  wonder  what  they  are  doing  there. 
(And  there  are  no  chaperons  at  these  Hops.)  You  ob- 
serve that  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  the  girls 
have  made  no  attempt  to  appear  in  "  evening-dress."  The 
only  man  in  regulation  war-paint  is  the  Professor  of 
Dancing,  who  gives  the  Hop  and,  as  you  see  presently, 
acts  as  the  master  of  ceremonies  at  it.  In  fact,  nearly 
everybody  is  dressed  in  his  or  her  "  Sunday  best."  On 
your  left  is  the  entrance  into  the  hall ;  in  front  of  you  is 
the  indispensable  refreshment-room.  While  you  are 
gazing  about  you,  the  band  within  the  hall  strikes  up— 
it  is  the  insinuating  music  of  an  old  favourite  waltz  of 
Strauss's,  and  the  people  press  in,  but  without  rudeness  or 
scrambling,  into  the  dancing-room.  And  you  pass  in  too. 
Holborn  Town  Hall  is  a  noble  room  for  dancing  in,  or 
for  anything  else.  And  on  this  particular  evening  its 
polished  floor  gleams  like  ice.  At  one  end  is  a  platform, 
on  which  is  an  organ ;  at  the  far  end  is  a  gallery,  bare 
of  people.  Immediately  in  front  of  the  organ  is  the 
band ;  it  counts  some  seven  or  eight  instruments,  and 
they  who  perform  on  them  are  dressed — well,  not  exactly 
like  the  members  of  the  Blue  Hungarian  or  Red  Ruma- 
nian  Bands.     One  or  two  are  in  a  uniform  of  sorts,  two 


THE    SHILLING    HOP  155 

or  three  are  in  evening  attire  (also  of  sorts),  the  rest  are 
in  "lounge"  suits.  But  the  dress  doesn't  matter;  it  is 
the  music — but,  alas !  that  might  be  better.  As  the  music 
sounds  the  floor  of  the  hall  is  covered  in  a  twinkling  with 
dancers.  You  watch  them,  and  you  notice  that  as  a  rule 
they  dance  excellently  well,  but  their  enjoyment  is  of  the 
most  sober,  decorous  kind.  The  great  major- 
ity, you  can  hardly  fail  to  see  without  a  smile,  d^rnacvee 
regard  dancing  as  a  very  serious  business — a 
thing  not  lightly  to  be  undertaken,  but  with  all  gravity. 
You  have  an  amused  sense  that  every  one  is  determined 
to  get  the  fullest  possible  value  for  his  or  her  shilling. 
But  they  do  dance  well.  Here  you  shall  see  two  hundred 
couples  on  the  floor  waltzing,  and  you  shall  entirely  fail 
to  observe  a  young  man  trampling  on  his  partner's  toes, 
or  a  pair  wildly  careering  amongst,  blindly  cannoning 
against,  inoffensive  and  defenceless  people.  You  ask 
yourself,  with  your  usual  impertinence,  who  they  all  are, 
and  the  answer  is  not  far  to  seek.  They  are — at  least 
most  of  them — from  the  ranks  of  the  exceeding  great 
army  of  shop-assistants,  and  the  biggest  battalions  are 
drawn  from  what  our  American  cousins  call  "  dry-goods 
stores."  And  if  the  sight  they  present  is  not  exactly  gay, 
it  is  at  any  rate  a  pleasant  sight — a  sight  which  would 
have  delighted  the  heart  of  the  great  novelist  and  good 
man  who  wrote  All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men,  and 
who  gave  East  London  its  "  People's  Palace." 


156        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

The  waltz  over,  the  dancers  flock  away  to  the  refresh- 
ment-room. The  Professor  of  Dancing,  meanwhile,  has 
spotted  von,  and  he  comes  up,  hows,  and  inquires  if  he 
may  get  you  a  partner.  You  enter  into  conversation  with 
him,  and  congratulate  him  on  the  success  of  the  Hop. 
He  replies  that  sometimes  he  has  much  larger  affairs. 
He  tells  you  that  he  has  Shilling  Hops  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river  which  are,  perhaps,  much  bigger.  He  des- 
cants on  the  finer  aspects  of  the  thing — how  these  Shil- 
ling Hops  are  looked  forward  to  by  many  a  young  girl, 
many  a  voung  fellow,  as  the  brightest  spots  in  their  lives. 

He  assures  you  that  these  Hops  make  for  man- 
The  -  L 

"Professor-      Hness  and  a  wholesome  pride — are  not  pupils 

alks. 

of  his  now  soldiers  of  the  King  in  South 
Africa  and  elsewhere?  '  Here,"  he  says,  "  a  man  sees 
man}-  young  ladies,  and  if  he  takes  a  fancy  for  one — you 
may  be  sure  he  has  many  competitors ;  he  has  to  take 
pains  with  himself  and  his  appearance;  he  has  to  show 
what  he's  worth  to  win  her;  it's  a  very  good  thing  for 
both."  Quite  so,  you  agree.  Then  his  talk  drifts  off  to 
other  dances  in  the  town,  and  he  institutes  comparisons 
between  these  and  his  own  Hops — greatly  in  favour  of 
the  latter,  you  may  be  sure.  And  perhaps  not  without 
reason.  The  Cake  Walk,"  he  goes  on,  "  is  all  the  rage 
now.  Would  you  like  to  see  one?"  And  he  announces 
in  a  loud  tone  that  the  Cake  Walk  will  be  interpolated 
between  the  next  two  dances  on  the  list.     First  comes  the 


S^^^^^^^^^^^^jg"    v^Ly 


THE    SHILLING    HOP  159 

Lancers — danced  with  the  utmost  correctness  and  a  feel- 
ing for  the  niceties  of  deportment  which  would  have  sat- 
isfied even  the  immortal  Turveydrop.  And  then  follows 
the  Cake  Walk.  But  this  is  not  a  huge  success.  Perhaps 
it  is  because  there  is  so  much  abandon  about  it — because 
it  is  so  complete  a  caricature  of  Turveydropism — but  the 
Shilling  Hoppers  do  not  take  to  it  kindly.  They  do  ever 
so  much  better  in  their  grave,  severely  serious  waltzes; 
truth  to  say,  they  take  their  pleasures  a  trifle  sadly. 


CHAPTER    XI 


CLUB    LIFE 


"  I   was  detained  at   the   Club." — Any   husband   to  any  wife    (Old 
Style). 

London  is  pre-eminently  the  city  of  clubs.  In  it  there 
are  at  least  fifty  of  well-established  position,  as  many 
more  of  greater  or  less  pretensions  to  social  standing,  and 
a  multitude  besides,  the  status  of  which  is  "  special"  or 
"  peculiar."  An  ingenious  American,  fond  of  the  statis- 
tical side  of  life,  has  calculated  that  the  "  recognised" 
London  clubs  have  a  membership  of  upwards  of  one  hun- 
dred thousand.  Clubs  of  one  kind  or  another  are  now  to 
be  found  all  over  the  town,  but  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
thev  may  be  said  to  be  pretty  well  confined  to  Pall  Mall, 
St.  James's,  and  Piccadilly.  On  the  extreme 
to,^e  western  boundary  you  shall  find  the   Bache- 

lors', at  the  corner  of  Hamilton  Place,  and  the 
Wellington,  at  the  top  of  Grosvenor  Place.  Leaving  out 
of  view  the  City  clubs,  you  may  say  that  the  Senior  forms 
the  eastern  boundary;  but  this  is  hardly  correct,  for  such 
a  statement  fails  to  take  into  account  a  host  of  clubs,  such 
as  the  Union,  the  National  Liberal,  and  the  other  clubs 

in  Whitehall  Court,  the  Constitutional,  the  Garrick,  the 
160 


CLUB    LIFE 


161 


Savage,  the  Green  Room,  the  National  Sporting,  the  Vic- 
toria, the  Writers',  and  the  Press,  which  all  lie  further 
east.  If  yon  will  look  at 
any  list  of  clubs  for  this 
year  of  grace,  1902,  von 
can  count  about  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty-live  for 
gentlemen,  and  a  dozen 
for  ladies.  A  century 
ago  there  were  no  clubs 
for  ladies,  and  very  few 
for  gentlemen.  The  rise 
of  clubs  is  distinctly  a 
feature  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  But  though 
the  beginning  of  the 
twentieth  century  sees 
more  clubs  in  London 
than  ever  before,  the  rise 
of  the  restaurants,  so 
conspicuous  a  feature  of 
present-day  London  life,  has  profoundly  modified  the 
Night  Side  of  club  life.  The  club-man  of  seventy  or 
eight)r  years  ago,  who  spent  most  of  his  evenings  at  his 
club  dining,  gaming,  drinking,  gossiping,  were  he  to 
come  to  life  again  and  revisit  his  former  haunt  at  his 

accustomed  time  o'  night,  would  more  probably  than  not 

11 


■SK\E.TcH        At 


1 62        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

find  it  almost  empty.  And  were  he  to  be  told  that  clubs 
are  most  populous — indeed,  only  populous — at  the  hour 
sacred  to  afternoon  tea,  he  would  not  believe  it,  or  if  he 
did  he  would  get  himself  back  in  immitigable  disgust  to 
the  shades  again. 

Some  of  the  older  clubs,  as  you  may  see  from  the 
famous  book  at  Brooks's,  wherein  are  recorded  the  bets 
of  its  members  in  days  long  bygone,  were  gambling-clubs 
and  nothing  else.  In  St.  James's  Street  you  can  find 
the  Cocoa  Tree,  whose  name  recalls  the  ancient  seat  of 
gaming,  and  hard  by  is  the  Thatched  House,  built  on  the 
site  of  a  once  celebrated  tavern  of  the  same  appellation. 
And  here  it  may  be  noted  that  the  London  clubs,  the  pro- 
genitors of  the  modern  clubs,  grew  out  of  the  London 
taverns.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  men  spent  their 
evenings  in  the  taverns  of  the  town — one  of 

Clubs  ° 

grew  out  the  best  known  to  the  bucks  of  the  time  being 

of  taverns. 

the  Thatched  House  aforesaid ;  another  was 
the  Bedford  in  Covent  Garden,  of  which  you  may  read  in 
the  veracious  pages  of  Smollett.  Perhaps  White's  is  the 
oldest  of  London  clubs — you  will  find  a  good  deal  about 
it  in  Thackeray,  who  laid  several  scenes  in  his  novels 
there.  In  former  days  play  ran  high  and  was  not  unat- 
tended with  bad  blood — some  of  which  was  "  let"  in  duels 
in  the  Park.  How  degenerate  would  the  clubs  of  to-day, 
with  their  devotion  to  afternoon  tea,  appear  to  the  men 
of  that  period ! 


CLUB    LIFE  163 

In  the  story  of  last  century  political  clubs  played  a 
great  part.  Over  against  each  other  (in  history  as  in  the 
street)  stand  the  Carlton  and  the  Reform.  Of  the  inte- 
rior of  the  former  you  can  see  nothing  unless  you  are  a 
member,  for  no  stranger  is  allowed  to  dine  there  or  even 
enter  its  rooms.  But  then  'tis  whispered  that  a  dinner  at 
the  Carlton  Club  is  not  a  joy  for  ever.  The  Reform,  true 
to  its  principles,  is  liberal,  for  it  does  admit  the  stranger 
within  its  gates,  and  there,  should  a  member  invite  you, 
you  may  dine  very  well.  And  per- 
haps the  member  of  the  Reform 
with  whom  you  dine  will  not  forget 
to  tell  you  that  they  have  a  better 
chef  than  there  is  across  the  road. 
Brooks's  at  one  time  was  the  great 
Liberal,  or  rather  Whig,  club,  but 
though  the  Carlton  and  the  Reform 
still  remain  the  chief  political  clubs,  there  are  now  many 
others.  As  for  example,  there  are  the  Conservative,  the 
Junior  Carlton,  the  Constitutional,  the  Junior  Constitu- 
tional, the  Junior  Conservative,  the  St.  Ste- 
phen's, on  the  one  side  of  politics,  and  on  the  political 
other  the  Devonshire  (which,  however,  is  now 
more  of  the  "social"  type  than  of  the  "political"),  the 
Eighty,  the  National  Liberal,  and  the  New  Reform. 
Considerable  gatherings  of  members  are  to  be  seen  at 
nearly  all  of  these  clubs,  except  when  Parliament  is  sitting, 


[64        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

in  the  afternoons,  and  again  on  special  nights  during 
the  year  when  there  is  "  anything  on."  A  few  of  these 
political  clubs  have  members  who  are  not  politicians  first, 
last,  and  all  the  time;  the  Reform  has  several  men  of 
letters  on  its  roll  at  present ;  in  the  past  it  had  Macaulay 
and  Thackeray.  The  Eighty  is  "  addressed"  periodically 
by  leading  lights  of  the  Liberal  party.  A  large  number 
of  journalists  belong  to  the  younger  political  clubs. 
Some  of  these  political  clubs  are  aristocratic,  others 
are  as  distinctly  of  the  middle  class.  But  whether  a 
politician  is  Conservative  or  Liberal,  an  aristocrat 
or  of  the  middle  class,  he  rarely  dines  at  his  club; 
hardly  ever  does  he  invite  guests  to  dine  with  him  at 
'  the  Club"  ;  he  prefers  to  show  his  hospitality  either 
at  his  own  house,  or,  vicariously,  as  it  might  be  put,  at 
a  restaurant. 

This  is  perhaps  not  quite  so  much  the  case  at  the  Ser- 
vice clubs.  The  veteran  has  not  taken  with  as  much  en- 
thusiasm to  dining  at  the  restaurant  as  has  his  junior,  but 
still,  even  the  most  old-fashioned  of  the  Service  clubs  is 

more  or  less  deserted  in  the  evenings.  It  is  at 
andmmtTry.     mncn  an(l  m  the  afternoons  that  you  shall  see 

many  distinguished  officers,  both  naval  and 
military,  at  such  clubs  as  the  L  nited  Service,  called  by  the 
frivolous  the  Cripples'  Home,  but  spoken  of  as  the  Senior 
by  the  more  sober-minded,  the  Army  and  Navy,  otherwise 
known  as  the  Rag,  the  Naval  and  Military,  which  has  its 


CLUB    LIFE 


i6t 


abode  in  the  house  formerly  occupied  by  Lord  Palmer- 
ston,  and  the  scene  of  Lady  Palmerston's  once  celebrated 
'  Saturdays,"  the  East  India  United  Service,  the  Junior 
Army  and  Navy,  and  the  Junior  Naval  and  Military. 
Some  of  the  Service  clubs  are  devoted  to  special  branches 
of  the  military  profession — such  as  the  Cavalry  and  the 
Guards' ;  the  former  is  in  Piccadilly,  the  latter  in  Pall 
Mall.  But  of  course  many  of  the 
members  of  the  Service  clubs  be- 
long to  other  clubs,  and.  also  of 
course,  officers  who  are  on  duty 
in  London  have  their  own  mess. 
It  may  be  of  interest  to  state  that 
at  least  in  one  case  ( that  of  the 
Household  Cavalry)  the  members 
of  the  mess  sit  down  to  dinner  in  ordinary  evening-dress 
— this  has  the  advantage  of  allowing  these  gentlemen  to 
go  into  society  without  having  to  "  change." 

There  is  in  London  an  immense  number  of  clubs  de- 
voted to  sport  in  one  form  or  another.  You  can  begin 
with  the  Alpine  and  go  on  to  the  Victoria.  All  kinds  of 
sports  and  all  forms  of  sport  you  shall  find  have  club- 
houses —  mountaineering,  automobilism,  coaching,  ath- 
letics and  swimming,  chess,  photography,  fly-fishing, 
golf,  pigeon-shooting,  polo,  cricket,  rowing,  rackets, 
skating,  yachting.  In  this  class  you  may  include  such  a 
club  as  the  Travellers' — its  house  is  in  Pall  Mall,  and  it 


1 66        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

is  one  of  the  most  exclusive  in  the  town.  In  Piccadilly 
is  the  Turf  Club,  the  most  fashionable  of  all  the  sporting- 
clubs,  and  a  centre  of  interest  for  the  horse- 
racing  world.  Two  or  three  of  the  sports-  SPcki'bf 
clubs  go  in  for  sports  all  round,  and  a  few  of 
the  social  clubs  add  something  connected  with  sports  or 
sporting  to  their  ordinary  programmes.  The  club  which 
calls  itself,  and  is,  par  excellence,  the  National  Sporting 
Club  is  treated  of  in  a  separate  article  which  will  be  found 
further  on  in  this  book.  On  certain  afternoons  and  even- 
ings this  club  has  competitions  and  contests.  There  are 
one  or  two  of  the  other  clubs  that  come  within  this  para- 
graph which  are  tolerably  well  filled  on  special  evenings, 
but  here  again  they  are  better  patronised  during  the  after- 
noons, as  a  rule,  than  the  evenings.  So  far  as  betting  and 
card-playing  are  concerned,  there  is,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
not  a  little  of  these  going  on  all  the  time  in  most  sporting- 
clubs;  but  a  card-room  is  to  be  found  in  the  majority  of 
London  clubs,  where  whist,  poker,  or  bridge,  the  most 
popular  now  of  games  of  cards,  is  played  for  stakes  of 
waning  amounts.  The  Baldwin  makes  a  feature  of  whist 
and  bridge  for  small  points.  And  as  the  evening  rather 
than  the  afternoon  lends  itself  to  a  game  of  whist  or 
bridge,  there  is  always  a  certain  number  of  members  to 
be  seen  in  some  of  the  clubs  after  dinner.  And  as  for  bet- 
ting on  races,  this  form  of  gambling  is  so  national  a  char- 
acteristic that  the  wonder  is,  not  that  there  is  so  much  of 


■ 


CLUB    LIFE  169 

it  in  the  clubs,  but  that  there  is  so  little.  That  there  are 
two  or  three  gambling-clubs — which  exist  for  gambling 
and  nothing  else — is  well  known  to  the  initiate,  but  these 
lie  as  far  under  the  surface  of  the  life  of  the  town  as  pos- 
sible. The  activity  of  the  police  has  rendered  the  exist- 
ence of  these  places  exceedingly  difficult,  and  in  fact 
almost  impossible. 

The  vast  majority  of  London  clubs  fall  under  the  head 
of  social  clubs.  Some  of  these  minister  to  a  class,  as  for 
instance  the  St.  James's,  which  is  not  in  St.  James's  but  in 
Piccadillv,  where  gather  together  the  diplomatists  of  all 
nations,  and  the  various  University  clubs,  to  which  be- 
long men  from  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  Others,  again, 
specially  cater  for  artists,  litterateurs,  and  dramatic  folk. 
The  grave  and  ineffably  respectable  Athenaeum  Club, 
which  stands  opposite  the  Senior,  places  literature  in  the 
forefront  of  its  programme;  but  you  will  see  not  many 
literary  men  in  it — rather  will  you  behold,  with  a  proper 
chastening  of  spirit,  bishops,  cabinet  ministers,  judges, 
and  other  erect  pillars  of  the  state.  You  have  only  to 
become  a  bishop  to  be  at  once  admitted  amongst  its  mem- 
bers— how  simple  a  thing  that  is!  Of  literary  men  you 
will  see  a  number  (come  for  afternoon  tea,  as  in  so  many 
other  clubs  in  these  days)  at  the  Saville,  the  Authors',  the 
Arundel,  and  the  Savage;  of  artists  at  the  Arts',  the  Bur- 
lington,  and  the  Savage;  of  dramatic  people  at  the  Gar- 
rick,  the  Green  Room,  the  O.P.    (Old  Playgoers'),  the 


i7o        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


Playgoers',  and,  once  again,  the  Savage.  Some  of  these 
clubs  have  special  nights,  and  in  the  next  chapter  vou 
shall  go  to  a  Saturday  at  the  Savage,  dine,  and  spend 
the  evening.  Most  of  the  social  clubs  bear  no  particu- 
lar label.  You  may  start  with  Arthur's  in  St.  James's 
Street,   where  you  will  find  vourself  in  very 

Socia   clubs. 

excellent  society  indeed,  or  Boodle's,  in  the 
same  street,  with  its  famous  bay-window,  and  a  class  of 
supporters  very  similar  to  that  at  Arthur's.  You  may 
call  in  at  the  New  Lyric,  and  wind  up  in  the  wee  sma' 
'oors  at  the  Eccentric — of  which  a  sketch  is  given  in  a 
succeeding  chapter.  If  you  desire  something  particularly 
exclusive — well,  there  is  the  Marlborough  in  Pall  Mall, 
of  which  His  Majesty  the  King,  when  Prince  of  Wales, 
was  a  member.    The  social  clubs  of  the  town  are  many — 

of  all  shapes,  sizes,  and  prices,  so 
to  say — and  it  is  impossible  to 
imagine  that  there  exists  a  man 
who  would  not  find  himself  pro- 
vided with  a  club  to  suit  him 
(always  pre-supposing  he  will  suit 
the  club)  in  one  or  more  of  them. 
A  few  of  the  clubs  are  extremely 
difficult  to  get  into,  whether  as  member  or  guest,  as,  for 
instance,  the  Beefsteak — more  than  one  man,  covetous  of 
its  membership,  has  found  it  "  impossible."  Again,  there 
are  some  social  clubs  whose  socialitv  is  strictly  confined 


CLUB    LIFE 


171 


to  particular  nights  or  occasions.  As  illustrations,  take 
two  of  the  literary  clubs,  the  Whitefriars'  and  the  New 
Vagabonds'.  Both  of  these  are  dinner-clubs,  with  discus- 
sions  or  speeches,  or  some  other  way  of  passing  the  even- 
ing after  coffee  and  liqueurs  have  been  sent  round.  Such 
evenings  as  these  are  pleasant  enough,  but  there  is  noth- 
ing that  can  be  called  wildly  exciting  about  them.  Then 
in  addition  to  the  dinner-clubs  there  are  the  supper-clubs, 
of  which  the  most  fashionable  and  popular  is  the  Grafton. 
The  Grafton  is  a  Saturday  Night  club,  and  the  Grafton 
Galleries,  where  the  club  holds  its  revels,  lend  themselves 
admirably  for  such  affairs.  'Tis  said 
that  the  raison  d'etre  of  the  Grafton, 
as  of  other  Saturday  Night  clubs,  is 
the  fact  that  as  all  the  restaurants 
must  close  at  midnight  on  Saturdays, 
there  must  be  found  some  meeting- 
place  (or  rather  eating-place!)  for  people 
theatres" — hence  the  Grafton  Supper  Club.  But  it  is  pat- 
ronised by  other  people  besides  theatre-goers ; 

.1  •       .1  ,  •  r     1  11  r         The  Grafton 

there  is  the  attraction  01  dancing  as  well  as  01  Supper  Club 
supper.  And  at  the  club  there  is  a  certain 
amount  of  dancing  during  the  evening — both  before  and 
after  supper ;  perhaps  you  may  see  thirty  couples  or  so 
dancing.  But  the  great  majority  don't  dance :  they  sit 
about  and  talk  and  flirt — all  the  usual  human  business,  in 
fact.     But  probably  nowhere  in  the  town  will  you  see  a 


172        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

bigger  crowd  of  pretty,  well-dressed  women,  and  in  the 
number  there  is  a  goodly  sprinkling  of  the  best-known 
actresses  of  the  day,  for  amongst  them  and  other  mem- 
bers of  the  "profession"  the  Grafton  is  in  high  favour. 
And  if  you  want  to  dance  at  two  o'clock  of  a  Sunday 
morning,  why,  then,  get  some  one  to  take  you  to  the 
Grafton,  and  "  take  no  other." 

The  clubs  of  London  represent  in  a  measure  the  whole 
life  of  London.  They  are  not  confined  to  people  who  are 
in  society,  or  even  on  the  outskirts  of  it,  or  to  the  middle 
classes;  the  East  End  also  has  its  clubs,  or  what  corre- 
sponds to  clubs.  Every  class  of  the  community,  even  to 
the  lowest  with  its  thieves'  kitchens,  has  something  of 
the  kind.  Discussion  clubs  are  not  so  numerous  as  they 
once  were,  and  the  days  of  what  used  to  be  known  as 
Judge  and  Jury  chilis  are  past.  In  Soho,  at  once  the 
most  mysterious,  interesting,  and  sinister  (pray  let  the 
word    pass,    Mr.    Critic)    district    of   London, 

Soho  clubs. 

there  is  a  variety  of  strange  and  curious  clubs, 
some  more  or  less  well  known,  others  deep  and  dark 
below  the  surface.  It  could  hardly  be  otherwise  in  Soho, 
with  its  extraordinary  mixture  of  all  races  and  toneues. 

o 

Of  course,  there  is  a  Nihilist  club — in  all  likelihood  there 
.are  two  or  three  Nihilist  clubs — in  Soho.  And  there  are 
little  clubs  that  meet  in  rooms  far  back  from  the  shuttered 
windows  that  front  the  streets — mysterious  little  clubs 
that  keep  their  business  well  out  of  sight.    In  this  quarter, 


CLUB    LIFE 


173 


at  one  time,  there  used  to  be  mure  than  one  specimen  of 
the  "  Night  Club,"  but  such  dens  have  been  raided  by 
the  police  out  of  existence.  Still,  elsewhere,  a  Night  Club 
is  to  be  found,  and.  in  another  chapter,  you  shall  see  one. 
It  is  said,  at  the  time  this  chapter  is  written,  to  be  the  only 
one  left  in  the  town. 


CHAPTER    XII 

A    SATURDAY    NIGHT    WITH    THE    "  SAVAGES" 

"  I  am  given  to  understand  that  your  qualifications  aie  that  you 
must  belong  to  literature  and  art,  and  also  that  you  must  be  good 
fellows." — His  Majesty  the  King  (when  Prince  of  Wales)  in  1882. 

It  is  just  about  twenty  years  ago  since  His  Majesty, 
then  Prince  of  Wales,  uttered  the  words  which  stand  at 
the  head  of  this  chapter,  in  a  speech  addressed  to  the 
assembled  members  of  the  Savage  Club  at  one  of  their 
famous  Saturday  Night  dinners.  And  the  qualifications 
attaching  to  membership  in  the  club  are  the  same  to-day 
as  at  that  time,  though  the  club  itself  has  changed  its 
character  to  a  large  extent  since  its  first  estab- 
lishment.    There  is  no  more  celebrated  club  in 


Past 

and  present. 

its  wav  than  the  Savage.     To  it  have  belonged 


a  great  many  eminent  men,  and  it  still  has  on  its  roll  a 
large  number  of  distinguished  names.  In  the  beginning 
of  its  history  the  Savage  was  (to  quote  from  one  of  its 
members)  "  a  small  strip  of  that  charming  land  of  Bohe- 
mia," but  though  it  still  strives  to  cling  to  the  ancient 
ways,  it  is  undoubtedly  a  good  deal  less  Bohemian  than 
it  used  to  be.  Some  one  said  of  it  the  other  day  that  it 
i74 


WITH    THE    "  SAVAGES"  175 

now  contained  more  Respectabilities  than  Savages.  In- 
deed, at  the  lunch-hour,  seated  at  table,  there  may  be  seen 
almost  anv  day,  bar  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  half  a  dozen 
(or  more)  editors  of  the  great  London  papers,  and  every 
one  knows  that  there  is  no  one  more  respectable  in  the 
'varsal  world  than  the  editor  of  a  great  London  journal. 
To  the  primitive  Savages  these  editors  seated  in  their  club 
would  have  been  the  saddest  of  spectacles. 

Mr.  Harry  Furniss  in  his  entertaining  Confessions  of 
a  Caricaturist,  recently  published,  and  a  former  member 
of  the  Savage,  says :  The  Savage  Club  is  a  remnant  of 
Bohemian  London.  It  was  started  at  a  period  when  art, 
literature,  and  the  drama  were  at  their  lowest  ebb — in 
the  '  good  old  days'  when  artists  wore  seedy  velveteen 
coats,  smoked  clays,  and  generally  had  their  works  of  art 
exhibited  in  pawnbrokers'  windows;  when  journalists 
were  paid  at  the  same  rate  and  received  the 
same  treatment  as  office-boys;  and  when  ie p^a'"e 
actors  commanded  as  many  shillings  a  week 
as  they  do  pounds  at  present.  This  typical  trio  now  exists 
only  in  the  imagination  of  the  lady-novelist.  When  first 
the  little  band  of  Savages  met,  they  smoked  their  calu- 
mets over  a  public-house  in  the  vicinity  of  Drury  Lane, 
in  a  room  with  a  sanded  floor;  a  chop  and  a  pint  of  ale 
was  their  fare,  and  good  fellowship  atoned  for  lack  of 
funds.  The  brothers  Brough,  Andrew  Halliday,  Tom 
Robertson,  and  other  clever  men  were  the  original  Sav- 


i;6        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

ages,  and  the  latter  (sic)  in  one  of  his  charming  pieces 
made  capital  out  of  an  incident  at  the  club.  One  member 
asks  another  for  a  few  shillings.  '  Very  sorry,  old  chap, 
I  haven't  got  it.  but  I'll  ask  Smith!"  Smith  replies,  '  Not 
a  cent  myself,  but  I'll  ask  Brown.'  Brown  asks  Robin- 
son, and  so  on  until  a  Croesus  is  found  with  live  shillings 
in  his  pocket,  which  he  is  only  too  willing  to  lend.  But 
this  true  Bohemianism  is  as  dead  as  Queen  Anne,  and  the 
Savages  now  live  merely  on  the  traditions  of  the  past." 
So  writes  Air.  Furniss,  though  later  in  the  same  chap- 
ter he  is  kind  enough  to  admit  that  "  no  doubt  some 
excellent  men  and  good  fellows  are  still  in  the  Savage 
wigwam."  He  talks  of  now  finding  in  the  Garrick  Club 
the  desired  element  in  its  maturity,  that  is,  the  true  Bohe- 
mian character  "  the  Savage  endeavoured  at  that  time  to 
emulate."  But  even  the  Garrick  at  midnight,  when  it  is 
at  its  most  Bohemian  pitch — during  the  day-time  it  is  as 
solidly  conventional  as  any  place  in  town — is  not  what  it 
was.  It  is  a  Bohemia  in  evening-dress !  Fancv  a  Bohe- 
mia in  evening-dress!     The  truth  is  that  there 

The 

vanished  is  very  little  genuine  Bohemianism  in  London; 

Bohemians. 

and  Mr.  Furniss  to  the  contrary  notwithstand- 
ing, there  is  more  of  the  real  thing  to  be  found  surviving 
at  the  Savage  than  at  the  Garrick.  Still,  there  is  no  great 
amount  of  it  there  either.  More  extensive  remains,  so  to 
speak,  of  the  old  Bohemianism  may  be  viewed  at  one  or 
two  of  the  smaller  clubs,  such  as  the  Yorick.     But  the  fact 


WITH    THE    -  SAVAGES"  177 

is  that  the  clublands  of  literature,  art,  and  the  drama  are. 
for  much  the  most  part,  peopled  with  prosperous  men 
who,  if  they  do  not  fare  sumptuously  every  clay,  live  in 
a  state  of  a  continuous  series  of  "  square  meals" — a  state 
which  would  have  been  esteemed  by  the  old  Bohemians 
one  of  monumental  luxury.  As  a  writer  on  this  subject 
has  well  remarked :  '  The  poor  man  of  genius — often 
drunken,  dirty,  and  disreputable — is  wellnigh  as  extinct 
as  the  dodo." 

How  the  Savage  came  to  get  its  name  is  not  quite  clear. 
Sala  always  declared  that  the  name  was  taken  in  mere 
fun — the  idea  being  largely  assisted  by  the  fact  that  the 
club  was  presented  with  some  old  tomahawks  and  mocas- 
sins, a  collection  of  spear-heads  and  wampum-belts,  and 
a  scalp !  Be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  certainly  the  case  that 
'  Lo,  the  poor  Indian,"  otherwise  the  North 
American  aborigine,  is  much  in  evidence  not  savage? 

only  in  the  decorations  of  the  club  itself,  but 
also  on  those  elaborate  menus  which  make  their  appear- 
ance on  the  occasion  of  the  Saturday  Night  dinners — 
to  one  of  which  you  shall  presently  go.  On  the  walls 
of  the  club  are  to  be  seen  a  large  number  of  savage 
weapons  and  trophies,  and  there  is  at  least  a  grain  of 
truth  in  the  legend  that  the  chairman  keeps  his  fellow 
Savages  in  order  with  a  "  great  big  club."  For  the  gavel 
or  mallet    (it   isn't  a  mallet,   but  no  word  mure  appro-' 

priate  suggests  itself )   with  which  the  chair  calls  atten- 

12 


178        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

tion   to   its   behests   is   undoubtedly   a   genuinely   savage 

article — quite  literally,  it  is  a  savage  club.     Now,  when 

'  poor  Lo"  was  engaged  in  an  earnest  argument  with  a 

rival,  he  did  not  use  a  club  at  all;    the  use  of  such  a 


a\e*W. 


59UPS 
mudiii^ic      /totiv  Turtle 

P-T'Th 

I"hi.FT5o*  SOLC  HI»CaPEH«.<M.. 

fc/VTRtC 

tat-ties  of  Oiickev*  v  Alan 

joi/vr 

hint  CUASrtR  of  lAnB    '™w  Uld.ll  ■  Spinach 
Pvtaroe\  «/*  Cremr 

•    <&V^  JJ^-—^_      PAdTPip&es    cmid) 

SWEETS 

UttAflAO)  P(jocino-(u»fr  (st«fl) 

AOrEAU  ItlUM    fonpfiltor  Pr.ACflts 


^       __      'WTtAU    JCLLIC\     'UnPOIi  Of  I'FACPII 


Oct  205. 

1300 

W^AUOr°LL    tj 

IN     TMEl  L< 

CHAIR 


0 


weapon  would  probably  have  damaged  the  scalp  of  his 
opponent,  and  that  was  a  thing  which  Lo's  Feeling  for 
the  Beautiful  did  not  permit.  So,  'tis  evident  that  while 
the    Savages    of    London    regard    the    North    American 


WITH    THE    "  SAVAGES"  179 

Hiawathas    as    their    prototypes,    they    yet    hold    other 
savages  in  reverence. 

The  club-house  is  on  Adelphi  Terrace,  overlooking  the 
river.  And,  of  course,  you  would  like  to  take  a  peep 
at  the  rooms  before  you  sit  down  to  dinner  with  your 
hosts.  The  dining-room,  an  apartment  of  some  size,  has 
in  it  a  piece  of  furniture  you  don't  often  see  in  dining- 
rooms,  and  that  is  a  grand  piano.  The  fact  that  it  is 
here  at  once  suggests  that  the  Savage  breast  is  soothed 
— well,  as  savage  breasts  are  understood  to  be  soothed 
all  the  world  over.  On  the  walls  are  a  great  many  pic- 
tures, the  work  of  well-known  artists.  Across  a  hallway 
is  a  supper-room,  and  in  it  you  will  see  on  the  walls  a 
collection  of  the  fanciful  menus,  done  by  members  of  the 
club,  of  bygone  Saturday  dinners.  These  menus  are  not 
the  least  interesting  things  in  the  club.  On 
them  there  are  portraits  of  the  Savage  chief  menus! 

in  the  chair,  of  some  of  the  more  prominent 
of  his  supporters,  and  of  the  guests,  on  the  particular 
evening.  To  refresh  your  memory  of  these  menus  one 
of  them  is  reproduced  here.  Extremely  contagious  to 
both  dining-room  and  supper-room  is  a  liquid-refresh- 
ment bar,  and  here  Savage  hospitality  will  not  be  satisfied 
unless  you  get  outside  of  a  more  or  less  considerable 
quantity  of  fire-water.  You  will,  of  course,  remember 
that  the  consumption  of  fire-water  has  notoriously 
always  been  a  marked  characteristic  of  savage  (small  s, 


180        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OE    LONDON 

please,  printer — so  as  to  prevent  any  misunderstanding) 
life.  Upstairs  are  the  library,  billiard-room,  and  card- 
room.  You  really  have  no  business  to  glance  into  the 
library — it  is  the  den  specially  reserved  in  the  club  for 
Savages.  But  if  you  do  happen  accidentally,  as  you 
might  put  it,  to  look  in,  you  may  behold  evidence  that 
the  historic  "  savage  roar"  is  not  unheard  in  these  parts; 
in  other  words,  you  will  see  an  Appeal  to  Members  not 
to  make  quite  so  much  noise  as  it  seemed  they  had  done 
on  some  previous  occasion ;  there  may  be  even  more 
than  one  such  pathetic  Appeal.  And  now  you  sneak 
out  of  this  savage  lair  into  the  billiard-room,  where  is 
a  capital  table;  and  then  into  the  card-room,  in  which 
is  a  table  whose  shape  may  hint  to  you  that  these  gentle 
Savages  are  familiar  with  "  seeing"  and  "  raising"  other 
things  besides  "  hair,"  but  doubtless  in  a  strictly  "  lim- 
ited" manner. 

And  now  you  descend  into  the  dining-room,  where 
the  feast  is  spread.  Along  the  end  of  the  room  next 
the  river  runs  a  long  table :  in  its  centre  is  your  Savage 
host,  right  and  left  of  him  are  the  guests  of  the  evening. 
At  right  angles  to  the  "  high  table"  are  the  other  tables, 
and  if  the  occasion  is  a  big  one,  they  are  some- 
theSavagls.  what  apt  to  be  more  than  a  bit  crowded.  You 
look  around,  and  you  observe  you  are  in  very 
excellent  company.  The  dinner  itself  is  modest  enough, 
but  it  too  is  excellent — soup,  fish,  entree,  joint,  remove, 


WITH    THE    "SAVAGES" 


183 


sweets,  ices.  And  all  the  time  the  room  is  in  such  a  buzz ! 
The  hum  of  talk,  the  cackle  of  laughter,  the  splutter  of 
corks,  the  whole  agreeable  if  not  ideally  beautiful  human 
business  of  eating  and  drinking,  fill  the  place  with  what 


the  Scottish  paraphrase  calls  "  a  joyful  noise."  Dinner 
over,  the  chairman  pounds  three  times  (the  mystic 
Savage  number)  on  a  table  with  the  savage  club  here- 
inbefore  mentioned,    toasts    the    King,    and    allows    the 


1 84        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

assembled  braves  to  puff  the  Pipe  of  Peace.  And  next 
succeed  more  talk,  more  laughter,  more  noise — which, 
as  might  be  expected,  has  now  an  appropriately  "  full" 
tone. 

Presently,   the  club  again  is  hammered  on  the  table, 
and  the  chairman  rises  to  propose  the  health  of  the  guest 


The.    Ma^cst     ho-  pip-  Pip  -pit-pomc 

or  guests  of  the  evening — there  are  generally  several. 
The  guests  of  the  Savages  are  always  those  who  have 
"  done  something."  It  hardly  matters,  short  of  burg- 
lary,  what   the  something  is,   for  the  hospitality  of  the 


WITH    THE    "  SAVAGES" 


i85 


club  is  of  the  most  catholic  and  tolerant  character.  So 
the  Savages  have  welcomed  with  fit  entertainment  great 
(and  not  so  great — for  everybody  can't  be  great)  folks 
of  every  kind — soldiers,  sailors,  artists,  au- 
thors, actors,  musicians,  war-correspondents,  '^savages'! 
and  such  lesser  lights  as  princes,  and  dukes, 
and  members  of  Parliament.  The  guests  are  all  of  the 
male  persuasion,  and  the  Savages  themselves  leave  be- 


hind  them  their  squaws  in  their  wigwams  in  the  wilds 
of  Kensington  and  Clapham.  This  contempt  for  women- 
kind,  however,  is  an  ancient,  ineradicable  "  note"  of  your 
true  savage.       On  the  whole,   the   Savages  of   Adelphi 


1 86        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

Terrace  are  not  over-fond  of  listening  to  long  or  many 
speeches.  Is  there  some  subtle  connection  between  this 
fact  and  the  absence  of  the  fair?  Nay,  nay,  it  cannot 
be !  Yet — vet — von  donno  !  As  a  rule,  at  these  dinners 
there  are  either  no  speeches,  or  else  they  are  "  cut  very 
short."  But  to  every  rule  there  are  exceptions,  and  when 
a  really  bright  man  talks,  why  then  really  bright  men 
are  very  glad  to  listen  to  him,  unless,  as  sometimes  un- 
fortunately happens  even  in  the  best-regulated  families, 
they  happen  to  want  to  talk  too.  Now,  the  want-to-talk 
is  the  worst-felt  want  of  life,  and  the  Savages  feel  it  as 
strongly  as  most,  but  they  set  their  faces  like  Stoics 
against  giving  in  to  it.  Therefore  is  the  pow-wow  cur- 
tailed.    At  most,  "  few  and  short"  is  the  motto. 

But  the  chairman  is  speaking.  His  remarks  are  of 
the  humorous  variety,  and  you  will  be  surprised  how 
little  sad  they  make  you.  As  a  general  thing  there  is 
nothing  more  depressing  than  a  humorous  speech,  noth- 
ing duller.  But  dulness  is  at  a  tremendous  discount 
among  the  Savages,  and  the  chairman  is  well  aware  of 
it.  And  so  he  says  only  a  few  words,  more  or  less  com- 
plimentary   (if  he  can   make  them   less  complimentary, 

but  without  offence,  so  much  the  more  will 
guests"1*  tne.v  ^)e  relished)    to  the  guest  or  guests  of 

the  club,  and  he  tells  a  few  stories.  Lord 
Roseberry,  who  among  other  things  is  a  wit,  once  defined 
memory  as  the  feeling  which   steals  over  us   when   we 


WITH    THE    "  SAVAGES"  187 

listen  to  the  original  stories  of  our  friends.  And  it  may 
be  that  your  memory  will  be  touched  by  the  chairman's 
stories,  but  more  likely  than  not  it  won't.  Here  is  a 
savage,  a  genuinely  savage  story,  which  was  heard  on 
one  of  these  occasions — that  on  which  the  guests  of  the 
club  were  several  of  the  war-correspondents  who  had 
won  distinction  in  South  Africa. 

After  having  said  a  lot  of  nice  sugary  things,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  add  the  salt  of  humorous  depreciation.  He 
remarks  that  the  main  elements  in  the  make-up  of  a 
war-correspondent  are  his  facility  for  spending  money, 
and  his  difficulty  in  accounting  to  his  "  proprietors"  for 
it.  "  A  short  way  with  war-correspondents," 
he  says,  "  should  be:  no  accounts,  no  money."  *?!!?ln„, 
Then  he  illustrates.  "  Once  upon  a  time,"  he 
continues,  "  a  new  missionary  Bishop,  with  very  strict 
ideas,  went  out  to  a  diocese  in  savage  parts,  in  succes- 
sion to  a  Bishop  who  had  been  somewhat  lax.  The  new 
Bishop  saw  that  his  flock  smoked,  drank,  ate,  wived,  to 
excess.  Sad  at  heart  but  resolved  to  show  them  that 
they  must  '  change  all  that,'  he  determined  that  tobacco, 
gin,  feasting,  and  polygamy  must  go.  He  called  the 
chief  to  him,  and  told  him  what  was  in  his  ( the  Bishop's) 
mind.  '  What !'  exclaimed  the  chief ;  '  no  more  bacca  !' 
'  No,'  replied  the  Bishop  firmly.  '  What!'  said  the  chief; 
'  no  more  square-face !'  '  No,'  answered  the  Bishop 
sternly.      'What!    no  more  fat   pig  sing-song!'      'No,' 


ISS 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


cried  the  Bishop,  with  decision.  '  What !'  shouted  the 
chief;  'no  more  than  one  wife!'  'No,'  returned  the 
Bishop,  very  peremptorily.  The  chief  looked  at  the 
Bishop,  but  the  Bishop  showed  no  signs  of  relenting; 
his  fiat  had  gone  forth.  '  What!'  said  the  chief  angrily; 
'  n<  i  mi  ire  bacca,  no  more  square-face,  no  more  fat  pig 
sing-song,  no  more  than  one  wife!'  'No,'  said  the 
Bishop.     '  Then,'  decided  the  chief.  '  no  more  alleluia!' 


J  i    V^A  fw 


£M 


SAVAGE    CLUB    CCNCKRT. 


Yells  of  delighted  laughter  greet  the  chairman's  story 
-none  laughing  more  consumedly  than  the  war-corre- 
spondents themselves.  After  the  chairman  come  the 
responses  of  the  guests,  who  of  course  catch  the  Savage 
ear.  hut  may  not  always  catch  the  Savage  heart;  some- 
times  they  catch  something  else.     As,  for  example.     Not 


WITH    THE    "  SAVAGES"  189 

long  ago  a  young  member  of  Parliament,  who  is  un- 
questionably a  very  clever  fellow,  but  who  unluckily  for 
himself  made  the  mistake  of  posing  as  A  Superior  Per- 
son, in  which  role  he  read  the  assembled  Savages  a  little 
essay  on  English,  was  gravely  thanked  for  the  "  fifth- 
form"  lecture  he  had  been  good  enough  to  deliver.  The 
same  member,  a  moment  earlier,  reduced  a  certain  noble 
duke  to  the  common  level  by  reminding  him  that  at  school 
he  had  been  called  "  Grease-pot." 

After  the  speech&s  comes  the  serious  business  of  the 
evening,  which  takes  the  form  of  an  improvised  enter- 
tainment contributed  con  amove  by  the  Savages.  It  is 
a  smoking-concert  of  a  superior  sort.  And  now  you  will 
listen  to  some  of  the  cleverest  entertainers  of  the  town, 
that  is  to  say,  of  the  world.  You  will  perhaps  hear  a 
tenor  tell  you  once  again  that  the  Miller's  Daughter  has 
grown  so  dear,  and,  sung  like  that,  she  grows  dearer 
every  trip.  Then  will  follow  a  recitation,  a  piece  of 
declamation,  an  amusing  sketch,  a  funny  story;  then 
another  song — perhaps  in  a  thunderous,  immensely 
patriotic  bass.  Next  an  artist  will  draw  a  lightning 
picture — more  probably  a  dozen  of  them, 
taking  for  his  subjects,  it  may  be,  the  chair-  speeches6 

man,  the  guests  of  the  evening,  or  some  well- 
known   Savages.      These  portraits   are   almost   certainly 
t(  i  be  of  the  species  yclept  caricatures,  but  caricatures  or 
not,  they  are  sure  to  be  good.     After  the  pictures  there 


190 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


may  come  an  original  poem,  sure  to  be  funny,  or  another 
song,  humorous  or  sentimental,  as  the  case  may  be.  Or 
something  on  the  piano,  or  on  the  violin,  also  as  the  case 
may  be.  And  then  you  may  hear  some  plain  truths  about 
a  certain  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  from  his  friend  Boswell 
— which  may  remind  you  of  some  "  plain  truths"  re- 
cently put  forth  by  a  living  author  with  respect  to  a  dead 
one.  And  so  the  evening  goes  on,  quickly,  trippingly, 
entertainingly — this  is  one  of  the  entertainments  that  do 
entertain.  Between  eleven  and  twelve  the  assembly 
begins  to  thin,  as  the  Savages  go  off  to  wigwam  and 
squaw  and  papooses.  By  midnight  it  is  pretty  well  all 
over. 


CHAPTER    XIII 


<< 


WITH    THE        ECCENTRICS    3    A.M. 

"  Come  along  to  the  Eccentric  for  a  bit  of  supper." — Any  Member. 

The  invitation  at  the  head  of  this  chapter  has  been 
given  you.  Perhaps  you  have  never  entered  the  hos- 
pitable doors  of  the  Eccentric  Club,  but  you  have  heard 
about  it,  and  the  very  name  itself  piques  your  curiosity. 
Besides,  it  is  now  nearly  three  o'clock,  and  you  are  raven- 
ous. Why  you  should  be  up  so  late  (or  early)  is  your 
own  affair,  and  you  are  not  called  upon  to  incriminate 
yourself.  But  the  imitation  is  extended,  and  you  gladly 
accept  it.  The  rooms  of  the  club  are  in  Shaftesbury 
Avenue,  not  far  from  Piccadillv  Circus,  and  hither  you 
hie  with  the  friendly  member  whose  guest  you 
are  to  be.  En  route  you  will  probably  make  Eccentrics? 
inquiry  as  to  how  the  club  comes  by  its  sug- 
gestive appellation,  and  you  hear,  with  some  little  natural 
disappointment  it  may  be,  that  the  only  eccentric  thing 
about  the  club  is  its  name.  But  has  the  club  no  special 
features  ?  you  ask ;  and  then  you  hear  that  it  has  at 
any  rate  one  peculiarity,  and  this  peculiarity  consists  in 

certain  of  the  members   from  time  to  time  making  up 

191 


i92        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

"  surprise"  theatre-parties.  A  furniture  van,  for  choice, 
is  hired,  the  "  surprisers"  get  into  it,  drive  off  to  the 
particular  theatre  selected  for  the  visit,  and  then  descend 
upon  that  theatre  in  force  and  capture  the  stalls  (with 
the  benevolent  consent  of  the  management  or  without 
it).  There  are  not  a  few  theatrical  managers  who  are 
quite  willing,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  to  be  Eccentri- 
cised  in  this  manner — more  especially  as  the  raiders  pay, 
pay,  pay. 

Arrived  at  the  entrance  of  the  club,  you  go  in  from 
the  street,  now  silent  and  deserted  save  for  one  or  two 
wandering  shadows,  and  ascend  a  flight  of  stairs,  the 
walls  of  the  stairway  being  decorated  with  large  photo- 
graphs of  celebrities.  You  then  walk  into  a  handsome 
room — the  smoke-room  and  general  talk-room  of  the 
place.  A  big  canvas  by  "  P.A.L."  (Paleologue)  imme- 
diately takes  your  eye — it  is  the  only  picture  in  the  room. 
Its  subject  is  mythological — a  group  of  nymphs  and 
satyrs  having  a  high  old  time,  in  a  climate,  so  to  speak, 
where  even  the  fig-leaf  was  considered  too  pronounced 
a  garment  for  really  well-dressed  people.     At 

The 

smoking-         one  side  of  the  painting  is  a  grand  piano,  and 

room. 

on  it  are  books  of  cuttings,  menus,  and  other 

memorabilia.     In  another  place  you  are  sure  to  notice  a 

programme  of  a  theatrical   entertainment   given  by  the 

'  Lambs"  of  New  York,  a  club  whose  members  are  also, 

by   arrangement,    members   of   the    Eccentric,    and   vice 


WITH    THE    "ECCENTRICS" 


193 


versa.  The  piece  given  on  that  occasion  was  "  His 
Christmas  Alimony,"  and  the  programme  bears  the 
signatures    of    a    great    many    distinguished    "  Lambs," 


foremost  amongst  them  being  that  of  Mr.  Nat  Good- 
win. The  badge  of  the  Eccentric  is  a  stuffed  owl,  from 
whose  mouth  there  depends  a  clock  whereon  appear  the 
figures  "  XII"  and  "  IIII."     And  you  will  see  the  badge 

13 


[94        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

repeated  in  the  pattern  of  the  carpet  on  the  floor.     About 
this  clock  more  presently. 

But  your  host  has  ordered  supper  for  you,  and  you 
proceed  into  the  dining-room,  which  is  in  several  respects 
one  of  the  most  striking  sights  in  London.  To  begin 
with,  the  walls  are  covered  with  paintings  and  "  things," 
such  as  old  picturesque  weapons  and  the  like.  On  the 
cross-piece  of  the  doorway  through  which  you  have  just 
come  in  is  the  verse — 

"  O  wad  some  Power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  ithers  see  us !" 

(And  you  think  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  if  these  lines 
were  placed  above  the  doorposts  of  every  club  smoking- 
room  you  know. )  In  one  corner  of  the  room  is  the  bar, 
and  the  barmen  are  kept  pretty  busy,  for  though  it  is 
three  in  the  morning  there  are  plenty  of  members  about. 
And  nil  the  walls  at  the  same  side  of  the  room  are  a 
series  of  clever  portraits  of  some  of  the  better-known 
Eccentrics,  done  by  Julius  Price,  the  heads  being  life- 
size,  the  bodies  dwarfed.  Then  you  look  at  the  other 
pictures.     There,   flanking  both  sides  of  one 

The 

dining-room.  °*  tlle  doors,  are  Dudley  Hardys;  beside  one 
of  them  is  a  Ludovic — "  St.  Eccentricus  and 
the  Temptation"  (an  Eccentric  rendering  of  the  St.  An- 
tony business);  a  little  further  along  is  a  "Nocturne 
in    Bine  and   Silver";    near  it   is  what  might  be  called 


WITH    THE    "  ECCENTRICS" 


195 


"  Venus  through  the  Looking-Glass" ;  then  more  pic- 
tures. You  will  hardly  fail  to  observe  that  the  ladies  in 
these  paintings  belong  to  the  period  when  clothes  were 
at  a  fabulous  discount,  and  bargain-sales  were  still  un- 
invented.  Having  gazed  on  the  charms  of  these  nude 
figures,  you  look  at  the  clock,  the  most  characteristic 
piece  of  furniture  about  the  club.  Set  in  a  frame  on 
which  is  written  the  legend  of  the  Dancing  Hours, 
accompanied  by  the  words — 

"  When  time  turns  torment 
A  Man  becomes  a  Fool," 

is  the  famous  clock,  on  whose  face  there  are  displayed 

but  two  hours,  "  XII  "  and  "  IIII,"  which  may  serve  to 

suggest  to  you  that  the 

club  takes  no  count  of 

time  from  midnight  till 

four  in  the  morning.     If 

you  look  at  the  sketch  of 

it  in  this  chapter  you  will 

see  exactly  what  it  is. 

Well,  you  have  supped 
— perhaps  you  have  had 
some  plat,  such  as  had- 
dock and  poached  eggs, 
for  which  the  club  has  a 

particular  liking — and  there  is  still  half  an  hour  or  so 
before  the  Eccentric  reluctantly  closes  its  doors  upon  you, 


r6e  E£ce-«-»fci"c 

"   Cl^b     (Jock 


196        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

and  your  host  asks  you  up  to  the  billiard-room — there's 
"  just  time  for  a  game.*'  But  when  you  go  upstairs,  you 
find  more  members  up  here  playing  the  wee  sma'  'oors 
away.  You  look  on,  and  have  a  last  drink  and  a  smoke. 
Here,  in  this  room  too,  are  many  portraits  of  distin- 
guished people — not  necessarily  are  they  all  members  of 
the  club,  but  they  are  all  of  men  who  have  won  the  great 
diploma — they    have    all    "  done    something." 

Eccentrics. 

Your  host  tells  you  meanwhile  something 
about  the  members,  mentioning  well-known  actors,  ar- 
tists, dramatists,  financiers,  and  you  can  see  for  your- 
self from  the  predominant  type  of  face,  that  the  last- 
named  seem  to  be  in  something  of  a  majority.  You  have 
heard  of  that  strangely  beautiful  creature  called  the  "  Oof 
Bird,"  and  you  conclude  without  much  hesitation  that  he 
must  be  very  much  like  an  owl,  with  a  clock  hanging  out 
of  his  beak,  whereon  (on  the  clock,  not  the  beak)  is 
marked  "  XII  "  and  "  IIII."  An  Eccentric  bird,  in  fact. 
But  now  it  is  time  to  go,  and  you  sally  forth  into  the 
street. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

"  LA    VIE    DE    BOHEME" 

"'  .  .  .  And    then   vogue    la   galere!     and    back   again    to    Bohemia, 
dear  Bohemia  and  all  its  joys.  .  .  ." — Du  Maurier,   Trilby. 

Shakespeare  gave  "  Bohemia"  a  sea-coast;  it  would 
be  nearlv  as  incorrect  to  say  that  London  nowadavs  has 
within  it  a  Bohemia.  In  former  times  there  was  some- 
thing of  the  sort  in  Chelsea,  but  London  has  never  had  a 
Bohemia,  well  delimited  and  recognised  as  such,  in  the 
same  sense  that  Paris  has,  or  perhaps  rather  had,  one  in 
the  "  Latin  Quarter."  Not  that  London  has  ever  lacked 
Bohemians  in  plenty,  but  it  has  had  no  real  Latin  Quar- 
ter. No  English  author  can  ever  write  about  a  London 
Bohemia  as.  for  instance,  Du  Maurier  wrote 

No  London 

of  the  Paris  Bohemia.     In  Trilby  he  speaks  of  L;itir> 

Quarter. 

''  those  who  only  look  upon  the  good  old  Quar- 

tier  Latin    (now  no  more  to  speak  of)    as  a  very  low, 

common,  vulgar  quarter  indeed,  deservedly  swept  away, 

where   '  misters   the   students'    (shocking   bounders    and 

cads)  had  nothing  better  to  do,  day  and  night,  than  mount 

up  to  a  horrid  place  called  the  thatched  house — la  chau- 

miere — 

199 


200        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

'  Pour  y   dancer  le  cancan 
Ou  le  Robert  Macaire — 
Tou  jours — ton  jours — ton  jours- 
La  unit  comme  le  jour  .  .  . 
Et  youp  !  youp  !  youp  ! 
Tra  la  la  la  la  .    .    .  la  la  la  !'  " 

Well  London  has  no  "  good  old  Quartier  Latin."  In  a 
kind  of  a  way  the  Soho  district  may  be  called  a  Latin 
Quarter  of  London,  but  in  quite  another  sense  from  that 
used  in  connection  with  Paris.  For  one  thing,  the  system 
of  art-teaching  in  England  is  very  different  from  that 
which  prevails  in  France.  In  the  latter  country,  or  rather 
in  Paris,  for  in  art  Paris  is  France,  as  it  is  in  so  many 
other  things,  "  misters  the  students"  study  and  work  in 
the  ateliers  of  the  great  painters  as  pupils  or  disciples, 
whereas  in  England  they  do  nothing  of  the 
dubs°"  an  sort'  uut  study  and  work  more  or  less  indepen- 
dently of  the  recognised  Masters,  such  as  the 
Academicians  and  the  like.  On  the  other  hand,  the  stu- 
dents and  the  younger  artists  who  have  got  beyond  the 
student  stage,  and  some  of  the  older  men  too,  have  banded 
themselves  into  clubs  for  the  purposes  of  mutual  criticism, 
encouragement,  assistance,  and  sympathy,  the  practical 
side  being  kept  well  to  the  fore.  There  are  some  art  clubs 
which  are  purely  social.  And,  again,  most  of  the  greater 
painters  are  members  of  clubs  that  have  nothing  to  do 
with  art.  But  there  are  two  or  three  clubs  which  are  de- 
voted solely  to  art,  by  which  here  is  meant  the  Art  of 


"LA    VIE    DE    BOHEME"  201 

Painting.  In  this  chapter  you  are  invited  to  take  a  look 
at  two  of  these  clubs,  the  Langiiam  and  the  London 
Sketch  Clubs.  What  may  be  styled  their  Night  Side  is 
one  of  the  most  attractive  phases  of  London. 

The  Langham,  which  has  its  rooms  in  a  little  street 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  Langham  Hotel,  is  the  older 
club ;  indeed,  it  is  the  parent  of  the  other.  It 
got  to  be  somewhat  overcrowded,  and  threw  Langham! 
off  a  colony,  as  it  were,  which  presently  set  up 
business  for  itself  as  the  London  Sketch  Club.  To  the 
Langham  have  belonged  (and  still  belong)  some  of  the 
best-known  painters  of  the  day — you  will  see  them  on 
those  occasions  when  the  club  has  its  reunions,  which 
generally  take  the  shape  of  the  smoking-concert  that  is 
so  common  a  feature  of  the  Night  Side  of  London.  But, 
for  the  most  part,  it  is  a  considerable  number  of  the 
younger  men,  who  are  following  in  the  footsteps  of  their 
elders,  some  very  near  and  others,  of  course,  at  some  dis- 
tance, who  use  the  Langham,  and  the  same  is  true  of  the 
London  Sketch  Club.  Two  features  both  clubs  have  in 
common  :  one  is,  as  might  be  expected,  they  are  closed  as 
soon  as  work  can  be  done  in  the  open  air ;  and  the  other 
is  that  each,  during  the  winter  season,  devotes  one  even- 
ing each  week  for  exactly  two  hours  to  painting  two  sub- 
jects— of  which  more  anon.  In  fact,  these  two-hour 
sketches  (naturally  one  doesn't  imagine  pictures  can  be 
styled  "  finished"  that  have  taken  only  two  hours'  work) 


202        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

arc  the  sole  feature  of  the  London  Sketch  Club.     At  the 

Langhani,   however,   there  is  on  the  other   evening's  of 

the  week  painting  from  life-models.      In  one 

of  the  rooms  is  the  "  model-throne,"  and  round 

features. 

it  is  arranged  a  kind  of  gallery-  with  head- 
lights, for  the  men  to  paint  at.  If  you  take  a  glance  about 
you,  you  will  see  the  rooms  are  something  of  the  quaint- 
est, with  plenty  of  artist  properties  to  be  seen.  Work 
over  for  the  evening,  the  artists  compare  notes — a  pro- 
cess which  can  hardly  be  otherwise  than  valuable.  They 
then  have  some  supper,  to  a  running  accompaniment,  you 
will  readily  believe,  of  badinage  and  sportive  remark. 

The  artist  who  is  illustrating  this  book  is  a  member  of 
the  London  Sketch  Club,  and  you  shall  now  go  with  him 
to  it,  and  have  a  peep  at  one  of  those  two-hour 
sketches"  sketching  tournaments  of  friendliest  competi- 
tion which  are  the  specialty  of  this  institution. 
Their  rooms  are  in  Bond  Street  at  the  Modern  Gallery, 
and  they  meet  every  Friday  evening  while  the  winter 
season  lasts.  Generally  there  is  a  choice  of  two  subjects, 
a  landscape  subject  and  a  figure  subject,  so  as  to  give  the 
landscape-men  and  the  figure-men  an  equal  opportunity. 
One  or  two  artists — a  man  like  Dudley  Hardy,  for  ex- 
ample— will  one  evening  select  a  landscape  theme,  on 
another  a  figure  subject.  The  former  may  be  "  The  Land 
was  broad  and  fair  to  see,"  while  the  latter  may  perhaps 
be  "  After  the  Ball."     The  artists  begin  work  ("  to  slop 


"LA    VIE    DE    BOHEME"  203 

colour/'  in  the  words  of  the  candid  friend)  at  seven 
o'clock;  at  nine  the  whistle  is  blown,  and  the  brushes  are 
thrown  down.  Then  there  succeeds  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
of  frank  but  friendly  criticism.  Each  artist  has  his  own 
idea  how  the  subject  set  is  to  be  treated,  and  hence  there 
are  as  many  ways  of  treating  it  as  there  are  artists.  For 
instance,  take  the  subject  "  After  the  Ball." 

Mr.  Jack  Hassall's  idea  of  it  will  be,  you  may  suppose, 
an  old  gentleman  sound  asleep  in  a  chair,  his  head  drop- 
ping on  to  his  crumpled  shirt-front — there  is  a  certain 
suggestion  of  the  old  chap  having  partaken  of 
the  ball  supper  not  wisely  but  too  well.     Mr.  ^11 » 

Robert  Sauber  will  present  the  figure  of  a 
dainty  girl,  a  little  bit  tired  perhaps,  but  not  too  tired  to 
study  her  programme  with  interest  as  she  recalls  the  men 
who  have  been  her  partners.  Mr.  Cecil  Aldin  will  show 
us  a  match  at  polo,  where  men  are  "  after  the  ball"  in  a 
very  different  sense  from  that  given  to  the  phrase  by  the 
two  foregoing  painters.  Mr.  Starr-Wood  will,  you  may 
be  sure,  have  a  humorous  concept  of  the  subject.  Mr. 
Lance  Thackeray  will  as  certainly  delight  you  with  some- 
thing pretty.  Mr.  Tom  Browne,  who  is  acting  in  this 
case  as  your  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend  in  a  double 
sense,  will  undoubtedly  have  given  the  subject  a  touch  of 
that  broadly  human  humour  for  which  he  is  famous. 
Likely  enough,  he  will  show  up  a  realistic  sketch  of  a 
most  powerful,  not  to  say  brutal,  footballer,  in  full  stride 


J04        THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

"  after  the  ball.'*  And  so  on.  And  now  you  have  mas- 
tered the  feature  of  the  Sketch  Club,  so  far  as  its  work- 
ing side  is  concerned.  And  when  the  quarter  of  an  hour's 
criticism  (not  at  all  a  mauvais  quatre  heure!)  is  over,  the 
members  sit  down  to  supper  at  a  long  table,  at  which  they 
again,  to  use  the  classic  terms,  "  distinguish  themselves." 
You  see  the  whole  thing  is  a  happy  combination  of  work 
and  play. 

At  both  the  Langham  and  the  London  Sketch  Clubs 
there  is  no  little  jollity.  Larks,  frolics,  jokes,  some  of 
them  of  the  practical  variety,  tricks,  and  genial  buffoon- 
eries are  "  frequent  and  free"  amongst  their  members,  as 
might  be  anticipated  from  the  fact  that  so  many  of  them 

are    young    men — some    of    them    are    "  very 
Bohemians.      young   indeed."      But    what    an    infection    of 

good  spirits,  what  a  contagion  of  gay  and 
genuine  camaraderie,  characterise  them  all !  Here,  at  all 
events,  are  to  be  found  some  true  Bohemians.  For  Bo- 
hemia is  not  the  name  of  a  country,  or  a  place,  or  even 
of  a  "  quarter,"  but  is  that  of  a  condition,  a  state  of  mind 
and  heart,  the  outward  expression  of  a  temperament 
which  revels  in  the  joy  of  life.  Yet  it  must  be  confessed 
that  there  is  less  of  the  Bohemian  in  the  art-life  of  Lon- 
don than  there  used  to  be.  The  artist  has  become  a 
member  of  the  "  respectable"  classes;  he  is  in  "  society" 
-if  he  wishes  to  be  in  it.  and  he  generally  chooses  to  be 
so.     True,  the  English  artist  never  was  of  the  Murder 


"  LA    VIE    DE    BOHEME"  205 

type.  If  yon  have  read  Stevenson's  novel.  The  Wrecker, 
you  may  remember  how  Loudoun  Dodd  speaks  of  being 
"  a  little  Mursrer-mad  in  the  Latin  Quarter."  And  he 
sroes  on  to  saw  "  I  looked  with  awful  envy  on  a  certain 
countryman  of  my  own  who  had  a  studio  in  the  Rue 
Monsieur  le  Prince,  wore  boots,  and  long  hair  in  a  net, 
and  could  be  seen  tramping  off,  in  this  guise,  to  the  worst 
eating-house  of  the  quarter,  followed  by  a  Corsican 
model,  his  mistress,  in  the  conspicuous  costume  of  her 
race  and  calling."  Well,  never  was  there  anything  of 
this  sort  in  London.  And  at  the  Sketch  Club  you  will 
notice  that  misters  the  artists  are  dressed  very  much  like 
anybody  else.  It  may  be  that  one  reason  of  this  is  be- 
cause the  spirit  of  caricature  is  pretty  rampant  there,  and 
has  several  very  able  interpreters.  So  it  is  not  well  to 
have  any  affectations,  mannerisms,  or  peculiarities.  If 
you  have  any  of  these  things,  you  will  be  made  to  feel 
you  are  better  without  them. 

Here  is  an  illustration,  taken  from  an  article  on  "  Lon- 
don Sketch  Club  Frolics,"  which  appeared  in  the  Art 
Record  last  year:  "  One  prominent  member  has  so  great 
a  propensity  for  speech-making  that  the  others,  upon  a 
certain  occasion,  rose  as  one  man  to  violently  discourage 
the  orator.  A  number  of  cards  and  canvasses,  etc.,  were 
prepared  with  appropriate  legends  thereon,  so  that  when 
the  speechist  rose  to  his  feet  at  the  first  provocation,  there 
was  a  sudden  movement  all  over  the  room,  and  upon  the 


206        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

ends  of  sticks,  and  grasped  in  upheld  hands,  the  afore- 
mentioned  notices   were   thrust   out   so   that   there   was 

nothing  to  be  seen  but  such  boldly  lettered 
fnnorato?ng    exclamations  as  '  Chuck  it,'  '  Rats,'  '  Drop  it,' 

'  Dry  up,'  '  Give  us  a  charnse!'  and  other  en- 
couraging remarks.     The  remedy  was  efficacious." 

The  next  quotation  from  the  same  article  is  of  a  dif- 
ferent order,  but  is  an  excellent  sample  of  Sketch  Club 
humour.  '  Phil  May  once  made  a  famous  speech.  He 
rose  with  great  ceremony,  and,  gravely  taking  out  a  pair 
of  spectacles,  adjusted  them  on  his  nose  with  much 
gravity.  He  then  coughed,  and  paused  while  he  placed 
a  pair  of  pince-nez  over  his  spectacles.      Having  done 

this,  he  coughed  again,  and  looked  around, 
oration"5         tnen  taking  out  another  pair  of  glasses,  put 

them  on  also.  The  members  now  sat  waiting 
anxiously.  He  beamed  through  his  various  spectacles 
upon  them,  and  then  opened  his  mouth,  but  didn't  speak, 
because  he  suddenly  felt  in  his  pocket  and  found  there 
some  more  spectacles,  which  he  similarly  placed  over  the 
others.  This  went  on  for  some  time,  Phil  always  open- 
ing his  mouth  to  speak,  and  then  pausing  to  put  on  an- 
other pair  of  spectacles,  until  he  had  no  less  than  seven 
or  eight  pairs.  Then  he  spoke  at  last.  He  said  '  Tut, 
tut !'  and  sat  down  gravely." 

At  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  season  (October  to 
May)    these  art  clubs  have  an   entertainment  to  which 


"LA    VIE    DE    BOHEME"  207 

guests  are  invited.  At  each  there  is  an  exhibition  of 
pictures  :  at  the  spring  one,  the  work  shown  is  that  which 
has  been  done  in  the  winter ;  at  the  autumn  one,  the  paint- 
ings which  have  been  painted  during  the  summer  months 
when  the  clubs  are  closed.  You  have  had  the  good  luck, 
for  it  is  good  luck,  to  be  invited  to  one  of  these  functions 
— let  us  say  at  the  London  Sketch  Club  Autumn  Exhibi- 
tion and  Smoker.     In  the  rooms  you  will  see 

J  Sketch  C'.uh 

a  good  many  distinguished  people,  and  some        exhibition 

and  smoker. 

people  who  will  be  even  more  distinguished 
by  and  bye.  You  notice,  of  course,  the  walls  are  covered 
with  paintings,  and  you  get  a  catalogue.  From  this  you 
learn  that  the  officers  and  council  of  the  club  include 
George  Haite,  Dudley  Hardy,  Walter  Fowler,  Frank 
Jackson,  Giffard  Lanfestey,  Sanders  Fiske,  Paul  Bevan, 
Cecil  Aldin,  Tom  Browne.  Walter  Churcher,  John  Has- 
sall,  Lee-Hankey,  Phil  May,  Robert  Sauber,  Lance 
Thackeray.  Claude  Shepperson,  and  Montague  Smith. 
And  amongst  the  other  members  you  see  other  well- 
known  names — they  are  not  all  of  painters,  for  you  ob- 
serve that  Conan  Doyle,  most  catholic  of  men,  Frankfort 
Moore,  one  of  the  wittiest,  Arthur  Diosy,  one  of  the  po- 
litest, and  others  who  do  not,  strictly  speaking,  belong 
to  the  brotherhood  of  the  brush,  are  on  the  list.  Many 
of  these  gentlemen  vou  may  meet  in  the  course  of  what 
is  sure  to  be  a  pleasant,  not  to  say  festive  meeting. 
You  go  the  round  of  the  pictures,  and  you  will  indu- 


208        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

bitablv  find  much  to  admire.  The  canvasses  are  usually 
.small,  and  are  not  priced  too  high  for  modest  purses. 
And  you  may  pick  up  for  a  few  guineas  a  "  bit"  which 
in  the  future,  when  its  painter  has  risen  to  greater  fame, 
may  be  the  best  investment  of  your  life.  Somewhere 
between  eight  and  nine  the  smoker  begins.  By  this  time 
the  rooms  are  very  full,  and  it  is  difficult  to  move  about. 
A  chairman  appears,  and  announces  in  stentorian  tones 
that  "  our  frivolities  will  commence."  There  follows  a 
cheerful  noise  on  the  piano,  and  next  a  song — generally 
of  no  kill-joy  sort.  And  then  you  may  see  a  very  excel- 
lent "  turn,"  as  they  call  it  in  the  music-halls,  by  Starr- 
Wood,  who  will  do  facial  impersonations,  so  to  speak,  of 
some  of  the  best-known  members  of  the  club,  while  you 
look  on.     He  will  begin  with  Mr.  Haite,  the 

The  smoker. 

president ;  it  is  an  excellent  rendition  of  Mr. 
Haite's  face — a  trifle  caricatured,  of  course,  but  emi- 
nently recognisable.  You  observe  that  Mr.  Haite  laughs 
as  consumedly  as  any  one,  and  loudly  acclaims  the  "  facial 
artist."  Then  after  Mr.  Haite  come  Mr.  Phil  May,  Mr. 
Hassall,  Mr.  Dudley  Hardy,  and  many  more  victims  of 
the  clever  impersonator.  Next  on  the  programme  are 
two  or  three  songs — all  of  them  good,  rollicking,  robusti- 
ous ditties.  Between  the  songs  are  pauses,  when  there 
is  conversation — and  likewise  drinks.  Most  of  the  men, 
y<m  may  now  notice,  are  in  ordinary  dress,  though  some 
arc  in  the  regulation  evening  costume.     And  of  the  latter 


"LA    VIE    DE    BOHEME" 


21  I 


a  word.     But  here  you  may  again  see  all  about  it  in  the 
veracious  article  already  alluded  to — 

"  It  is  not  always  wise  to  enter  the  barbarous  precincts 


of  the  club  in  evening-dress.  Several  individuals  did  so 
upon  a  certain  occasion.  But  very  little  time  had  elapsed 
when   their   immaculate   shirt-fronts   were  covered   with 


212        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

drawings  like  the  pages  of  a  sketch-book.  Almost  imme- 
diately the  wheeze,  which  had  been  intended  to  annoy 
rather  than  please,  leapt  into  sudden  popularity,  so  that 
those  who  were  unadorned  immediately  sought  such 
decoration,  and  pretty  quickly  every  shirt- 
5  .    front  was  drawn  or  scrawled  over.     One  indi- 

as  canvasses ! 

vidnal  declared  that  he  intended  to  cut  out  the 
front  from  the  shirt  for  the  purpose  of  framing  it,  and, 
considering  it  bore  signed  drawings  by  Phil  May,  Dudley 
Hardy,  Tom  Browne,  Hassall,  Sauber,  Cecil  Aldin.  and 
others  as  famous,  the  notion  was  reasonable.  It  is  said 
that  this  incident  is  the  origin  of  the  phrase,  '  Our  artist 
at  the  front.'  Well,  there  is  the  story  as  set  forth  in  the 
Art  Record,  but  it  is  possible  enough  that  you  may  go  to 
the  club  smoker  with  the  most  impressive  amplitude  of 
'  biled  shirt"  in  the  world,  and  yet  never  a  single  brush 
or  pencil  touch  it. 

After  the  songs  there  will  come  perhaps  a  short  diver- 
tisement  in  the  shape  of  some  feats  of  mimicry  or  ven- 
triloquism. You  may  hear  a  man  imitate  a  child's  voice 
— from  babyhood  up  to  five  or  six  years  of  age — with 
such  absolute  fidelity,  that  if  you  close  your  eyes  you  will 
be  bound  to  believe  you  are  in  a  nursery.  And  you  laugh 
— you  can't  help  it,  you  laugh  till  the  tears  run  down  your 
cheeks.  Other  forms  of  entertainment  are  provided  for 
you  in  abundance.  A  favourite  seems  to  be  the  music  of 
an  orchestra  composed  entirely  of  members  of  the  club. 


"LA    VIE    DE    BOHEME"  215 

Recently,  there  was  to  be  seen  an  orchestra,  which  called 

itself  "  the  celebrated  Bousa  Band,"  and  on  the  door  as 

you  entered  there  was  hung  up  an  announce- 

•>  &     1  The 

ment  that  during  the  evening  it  would  play  a        celebrated 

Bousa  Band. 

selection  of  music,  "  as  played  before  all  the 
crowned  heads  of  Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  America,  Ire- 
land, and  Bosham."  You  may  wonder  where  Bosham  is, 
or  perhaps  you  know.  But  it  doesn't  really  matter — you 
take  the  kingdom  of  Bosham  for  granted.  And,  pres- 
ently, the  band  walks  upon  the  stage,  carrying  enormous 
instruments  of  brass-covered  cardboard  or  papier-mache. 
You  do  not  recognise  the  faces  of  the  performers,  be- 
cause they  have  covered  them  with  masks,  nor  do  they 
wear  such  clothes  as  you  would  expect  them  to  wear; 
they  are  dressed  in  uniforms  of  sorts,  and  their  coats  are 
decorated  with  vast  discs  of  tin  in  lieu  of  medals.  With 
much  solemnity  do  they  begin,  but  hardly  have  they  com- 
menced to  emit  their  music  (  ? )  when  there  is  a  general 
desire  felt  to  laugh  and  shout  rather  than  listen  to  it.  In 
truth,  the  music  is  as  unmusical  as  well  it  can  be.  But 
everybody  is  in  high  spirits,  and  naturally  the  selections 
of  the  Bousa  Band  are  encored  with  even  greater  hearti- 
ness, not  to  say  enthusiasm,  than  was  displayed  by  His 
Majesty  of  Bosham.  Piece  follows  piece  in  rapid  succes- 
sion, each  being  welcomed  with  uproarious  delight,  until, 
finally,  the  repertoire  of  the  band  is  exhausted.  Bousa 
himself,  who  has  conducted  their  efforts  with  wonderful 


216        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

clash  and  go,  disappears  with  his  band,  while  the  room 
fairly  shakes  with  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd. 

Other  things  there  will  be,  all  lively  and  amusing,  until 
near  midnight.  But  at  that  hour  the  members  have 
agreed  to  depart — at  least  that  is  the  order  nowadays. 
Formerly,  and  more  particularly  at  the  Langham,  it  was 
the  custom  to  keep  up  these  entertainments  into  the  "  wee 
sma'  'oors,"  but  it  is  significant  of  that  "  respectability" 
to  which  reference  has  already  been  made,  that  midnight 
is  now  considered  quite  late  enough  for  the  termination 
of  these  festivities.  Many  of  the  artists  live  at  some  dis- 
tance away,  and  they  want  to  get  home  by  the  last  train 
or  the  last  'bus,  as  it  may  be.  In  any  case,  they  and  you 
will  have  spent  a  thoroughly  enjoyable  evening. 


CHAPTER    XV 

SUNDAY    NIGHT    AT    THE    NEW    LYRIC 

A  large,  somewhat  smoke-begrimed,  but  yet  hand- 
some building  (a  block  they  would  call  it  in  America) 
stands  within  a  stone's  throw  of  Piccadilly  Circus,  on 
Coventry  Street,  between  Oxendon  Street  and  Whitcomb 
Street.  The  western  part  of  it  is  occupied  by  the  Prince 
of  Wales  Theatre — the  eastern  by  the  New  Lyric  Club; 
it  is  to  one  of  the  Sunday  evenings  of  the  latter  that  you 
are  now  invited.  First,  there  will  be  dinner  at  eight,  with' 
music ;  to  that  will  succeed  an  entertainment  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  theatre  of  the  club ;  then  there  will  be  sup- 
per at  midnight.  But  before  you  go  in  to  dinner  you,  as 
a  stranger,  are  asked  if  you  would  like  to  see 
over  the  club — and  of  course  you  would.  And  ciub-hoL^ 
certainly  you  will  not  regret  it,  for  the  interior 
of  the  New  Lyric  is  quite  different  from  that  of  any  other 
club  in  the  world.  To  begin  with,  there  is  the  theatre, 
decorated  in  cream  and  gold,  with  a  pretty  little  stage, 
and  accommodation  for  three  or  four  hundred  people. 
Here,  as  you  will  be  told,  have  appeared  some  of  the 

greatest  artists  of  the  time.     Next,  you  ascend  the  stairs, 

217 


2i8        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

and  are  shown  the  various  rooms,  the  decoration  and  fur- 
niture of  which  make  each  of  them  distinct  and  even 
unique.  For  instance,  there  is  the  Egyptian  Room  with 
its  Cairene  lattice-work,  or,  again,  the  Cabin  Room, 
where  you  will  fancy  yourself  on  board  an  Atlantic  liner. 
Or  you  may  prefer  to  sit  down  for  a  moment  in  the  Bam- 
boo Room,  or  the  Music  Room,  or  the  Ladies'  Drawing 
Room  (this  club  makes  a  feature  of  lady-guests),  or  one 
of  the  other  rooms.  But  everywhere  you  will  see  tasteful 
and  artistic  and  harmonious  ensembles — all  your  sur- 
roundings are  pleasant  and  agreeable.  And  now  you 
dine,  either  in  the  Lunch  Room  or  in  the  Dining  Room. 
Well,  every  well-appointed  dinner  is  very  much  like  every 
other  well-appointed  dinner,  but  while  you  dine  your  host 
tells  you  the  past  story  of  the  place;  and  you  listen — if 
for  no  other  reason  than  that  no  other  club  has  had  a 
story  at  all  like  it. 

The  New  Lyric  is  in  some  respects  the  successor  of 
the  once  famous  Lyric  Club,  though  its  present  state  is 
no  more  than  a  pale  reflection  of  the  glories  that  belonged 
to  the  older  club.  The  Lyric  occupied  the  same  club- 
house— indeed,  the  building  was  opened  in  1888  under 
the  auspices  of  the  Lyric.  But  the  history  of  the  Lvric 
went  further  back  than  that.  Its  germ  was  seen  in  those 
reunions  Major  Goodenough  held  many  years  ago  in  St. 
George's  Square.  At  these  there  met  together  members 
of  the  aristocracy   and   of   Upper   Bohemia   in    friendly 


SUNDAY  NIGHT  AT  THE  NEW  LYRIC     221 


intercourse  as  on  common  ground — that  was  not  so  gen- 
eral a  thing  as  it  is  nowadays.  These  reunions  grew  and 
broadened  out,  and  the  scene  of  them  after  a  time  was 
transferred  to  Park  Lane.  The  next  step  was  the  forma- 
tion of  a  club  called  the  Lyric,  with  rooms  in 
Bond  Street.     In  1888  the  Lyric  took  up  its       ,    .    ™e 

J  1  Lyric  Club. 

abode  in  Coventry  Street,  and  for  a  few  mem- 
orable years  the  club,  and  the  various  entertainments  it 
gave,  were  the  talk  of  the  town.  And  besides  the  house 
in  Coventry  Street,  there  was  a 
country-house  at  Barnes,  where 
during  the  summer  there  was  per- 
petual festival.  But  alas!  a  dark 
shadow  passed  over  the  club,  and 
it  came  to  grief.  As  an  interest- 
ing souvenir  of  the  Lyric  Club 
there  is  here  reproduced,  as  show- 
ing the  extraordinary  activities  of 
this  club,  the  testimonial  given  to 
the  secretary,  Mr.  Luther  Mun- 
day,  after  the  club  had  been  wound 
up.  It  will  be  noticed  that  it  is  signed  by  prominent 
people,  two  or  three  of  whom  have  passed  away.  The 
testimonial  also  tells,  in  condensed  "  tabloid"  form,  the 
history  of  the  club. 

Dinner  over,  you  descend  again  to  the  theatre,  where  a 
smoking-concert  is  to  be  held.      (Is  there  something  to 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

be  said  for  the  man  who  declared  that  the  Night  Side  of 
London  life  would  be  tolerable  but  for  its  smoking-con- 
certs?  Well,  it  all  depends — which  is  about  the  only 
generalisation  it  is  ever  safe  to  make.)  Members  of  the 
New  Lyric  dining  in  the  club  on  Sundays  have  seats 
reserved  for  themselves  and  their  guests,  and  your  host 
pilots  you  to  a  capital  place.  The  auditorium  is  fairly 
well  filled,  but  could  hold  a  good  many  more  without  any 
crowding;  you  notice  also  that  the  men  are  in  a  large 
majority,  though  the  actual  number  of  ladies  (guests) 
present    is    considerable.      All    the    male    creatures    are 

smoking — none  of  the  ladies  are,  though  up- 
Lyric  smoker,   stairs  at  dinner,  or  rather  after  it,  you  noted 

all  those  charming  beings  had  their  cigarettes 
with  their  liqueurs  and  coffee.  But  then  you  have  seen 
over  and  over  again  that  ladies  smoke  in  the  big  restau- 
rants if  they  have  a  mind  to,  and  no  one  thinks  anything 
about  it ;  that  is  one  of  the  changes  which  has  come  about 
in  the  last  few  vears.  But  this  is  a  digression.  Well,  all 
the  members  of  the  New  Lyric  are  smoking — they  smoke 
'  all  over  the  place."  You  now  look  at  your  programme, 
and  you  find  on  it  the  names  of  some  well-known  enter- 
tainers, vocalists,  reciters,  mimics,  and  so  on — and  per- 
haps the  names  of  some  others  which  are  not  quite  so  well 
known  to  you.  For  all  that,  the  programme  is  excellent. 
Even  if  it  were  not,  the  numbers  succeed  each  other 
quickly,  and  the  whole  show  is  over  in  a  little  more  than 


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SUNDAY  NIGHT  AT  THE  NEW  LYRIC     225 

an  hour — so  you  have  not  much  chance  of  being-  bored, 
especially  as  refreshments  of  all  kinds  are  ever  ready  to 
your  hand.  The  concert  at  an  end,  the  members  and 
their  friends  move  up  to  the  various  rooms,  and  chat  till 
supper  is  announced.  At  two  A.M.  everybody  goes  off 
home. 


15 


CHAPTER    XVI 

A    "  NIGHT    CLUB" 

"...   We  were  conducted  by  our  leader  to  a  place  of  nocturnal 
entertainment.   .    .    ." — Smollett,  Roderick  Random. 

It  may  be  that  when  this  book  is  published  there  will 
not  be  a  single  night  club  left  in  London ;  at  the  time  this 
chapter  is  written,  there  undoubtedly  is  one,  but  it  is  be- 
lieved to  be  the  only  one  now  existing  in  the  town,  and  it 
may  very  well  have  disappeared  long  before  these  words 
meet  the  eye  of  the  reader.  The  fact  is  that  night  clubs 
have  practically  become  impossible,  or  almost  impossible, 
in  London,  thanks  to  the  ceaseless  vigilance  of  the  police, 
whose  constant  raiding  of  such  dens  has  made  keeping 
these  places  a  dangerous,  and  therefore  an  unprofitable 
business.  From  time  to  time  one  is  started,  but  it  is 
quickly  '  spotted"  and  suppressed.  Onlv  a 
nightdubs.  tew  years  ag°  there  were  many  of  them  open, 
furnished  with  ballrooms,  bars,  supper-rooms 
(which  had  a  way  of  being  turned  into  gambling-hells 
on  the  slightest  provocation),  and  a  bevy  of  painted 
ladies — the  whole  protected  by  bullies  or  "  chuckers-out." 

A  few  of  these  places  of    '  nocturnal  entertainment,"  as 
226 


A    "NIGHT    CLUB"  227 

Smollett  phrases  it,  were  sufficiently  notorious — perhaps 
the  most  famous,  or  infamous,  was  the  "  Alsatians,"  who 
had  their  rooms  in  Regent  Street.  The  night  club  to 
which  you  shall  now  go  calls  itself  a  Supper  Club — to  it 
for  the  purposes  of  this  chapter  will  be  given  the  name  of 
the  Midnight  Supper  Club.  Of  course,  that  is  not  what 
it  calls  itself,  but  it  will  serve. 

There  is  little  use  going  to  a  place  of  this  sort  much 
before  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  restaurants  and 
public-houses  close,  it  will  be  remembered,  on  most  nights 
at  half-past  twelve;  it  is  after  that  time  that  the  night 
club  begins  to  fill  up — so  that  it  is  apparent  that  the  par- 
ticular club  to  which  you  are  going  should  be  named  the 
After  Midnight  Supper  Club.  You  have  set  out  with  a 
general  idea  where  the  place  is ;  you  have  been  told  it  is 
somewhere  off  Tottenham  Court  Road,  in  that  part  of 
London,  north  of  Oxford  Street,  and  south  of  Maryle- 
bone  Road,  into  which  Soho  has  overflowed.  And  you 
have  made  up  your  mind  to  find  it,  and  having  found  it, 
to  gain  admittance  somehow  or  other.  So  you  go  your 
way  up  Tottenham  Court  Road,  up  and  down  which 
many  people  are  still  moving,  notwithstanding  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour.  You  cast  a  searching  look  up  the  side 
streets,  until  you  come  to  one,  in  the  midst  of  which  is  a 
long  row  of  cabs.  You  wonder  what  are  so  many  cabs 
doing  here  in  this  obscure  street  at  this  time  o'  night,  and 
then  it  strikes  you  that  this  is  the  street  for  which  you  are 


228        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

looking — the  Midnight  Supper  Club  is  somewhere  here 
or  hereabouts.  You  walk  slowly  along  one  side  of  the 
street,  stopping  frequently  and  peering  about. 
MidnfghT  A  waiter  is  standing  on  the  steps  in  front  of  a 
^'p,per  building,  from  the  windows  of  which  the  light 

Club.  °  o 

streams,  and  fancying  you  have  hit  on  it,  you 
ask  him  if  he  knows  where  the  Midnight  Supper  Club  is; 
he  stares  at  you  somewhat  superciliously  or  suspiciously 
or  derisively  (you  never  knew  before  that  a  waiter's  face 
could  express  so  many  things!),  and  tells  you  he  never 
heard  of  such  a  place!  Afterwards  you  find  out  that  he 
must  have  been  making  fun  of  you,  for  the  Midnight, 
you  discover  later,  is  situated  exactly  opposite  the  very 
house  on  the  steps  of  which  that  perfidious  scoundrel 
stood  and  humbugged  you.  Just  as  you  are  wondering, 
not  yet  having  tumbled  to  the  true  inwardness  of  the 
waiter's  statement,  whether  you  are  in  the  wrong  street, 
or  if  you  will  keep  on  trying  here,  you  see  a  couple  of 
ladies  come  out  of  a  door  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
and  you  watch  them  get  into  a  cab  and  drive  away.  An 
idea  at  once  comes  to  you,  and  you  cross  over  to  the  cab- 
rank.  As  you  do  so,  you  hear  one  cabby  tell  another. 
There's  a  dance  to-night  at  the  Tivoli— that's  where 
they're  off  to."  Further  encouraged  by  this  remark, 
you  ask  the  cabby  who  has  just  spoken  if  he  knows 
where  the  Midnight  Supper  Club  is,  and  he  replies, 
;  Yes ;    there  it   is !"  and  he  points  to  the  door  out  of 


A    "  NIGHT    CLUB"  229 

which  the  two  ladies  emerged.       So  you  make  for  the 
door. 

It  is  here  that  your  troubles  really  begin.  You  have 
found  out  the  place,  but  how  are  you  to  get  in  ?  You  are 
probably  not  alone,  and  you  hold  a  hurried  consultation 
with  your  friend  or  friends.  A  scheme  at  length  is  hit 
upon.  One  of  you  is  to  pretend  that  he  has  an  appoint- 
ment with  a  certain  Mr.  Smithson,  whom  he  is  to  meet 
here.  This  one-of-you  knocks  at  the  door — the  porter 
outside  lets  him  do  this  much.  The  door  opens 
cautiously ;  there  are  whispered  words ;  the  ad^iolf 
door  closes,  and  swallows  up  the  inquiring, 
greatly  daring  man.  After  a  time  he  returns,  and  tells 
you  it  is  all  right.  His  friend,  Smithson,  is  not  inside, 
nor  indeed  is  he  known  to  those  who  watch  over  the  Mid- 
night Supper  Club — which  is  not  exactly  astonishing 
news  to  you.  But  he,  the  friend,  who  has  been  carrying 
out  this  little  scheme,  has  arranged  with  the  secretary  of 
the  club  to  become  a  member;  the  payment  of  a  guinea 
will  admit  him  to  all  the  privileges  of  membership  for  the 
balance  of  the  year — among  them  the  right  to  introduce 
friends  free.  The  guinea  is  paid,  and  you  enter,  escorted 
by  the  New  Member,  negotiating  successfully  on  the  way 
no  fewer  than  three  barriers,  each  of  which  separately  is 
quite  strong  enough  to  stop  a  rush,  whether  from  inside 
or  outside.  The  barrier  next  the  door  is  a  particularly 
stout   one,   being   strengthened   by   bars   of   iron  —  you 


230        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

wonder  if  it  is  meant  to  check  an  invasion  in  force,  say, 
by  the  police?  Before  you  are  allowed  to  get  past  the  last 
barrier,  your  names  are  put  down  in  a  book,  but  it  is 
highly  probable  that  you  have  assumed  noms-de-gnerre : 
it  is  therefore  unlikely  that  this  book  will  ever  trouble  you 
again.  At  last  you  are  made  free  of  the  night  club,  and 
you  walk  in. 

On  the  ground  floor  are  three  rooms,  all  brightly  lit  up. 
Nor  is  the  decoration  of  them  much  amiss.  A  dado  of 
dark-red  runs  round  each  room ;  above  this  is  a  profusion 
of  mirrors,  alternating  with  squares  of  reddy-brown 
paper ;  above  this  again  is  a  frieze — of  sorts.  The  gen- 
eral effect  is  undeniably  pleasing  and  cheerful.  The  fur- 
thest room  is  a  sitting-out  room ;  the  next  has  some  chairs 
scattered  about,  but  the  chief  thing  in  it  is  a  bar ;  the 
third  room  is  the  dancing-room — it  too  has  a  bar,  but  it 
also  has  a  piano.  As  you  took  your  tour  through  the 
place,  it  so  happened,  perhaps,  that  the  first 

The 

interior.  room  was  empty.     In  the  next,  however,  there 

were  two  or  three  men  and  as  many  "  ladies." 
The  latter  were  in  evening-dress ;  they  were  behaving 
with  the  utmost  quietness  and  propriety;  they  looked 
rather  dull  and  more  than  a  trifle  bored — did  these  poor 
creatures,  who  are  supposed  to  be  the  lures  which  draw 
men  to  the  club.  While  you  are  making  these  sapient 
observations  you  hear  the  notes  of  the  piano  sounding 
from  the  next  room,  and  thither  you  go.     Here  there  are 


A    "NIGHT    CLUB"  233 

perhaps  twenty  people — eight  females,  all  of  the  same 
class,  the  rest  of  course  males,  one  or  two  of  whom  are 
in  evening-dress,  but  the  others  in  any  kind  of  attire,  you 
might  say.  Two  couples  are  dancing  a  waltz- — the  sole 
music  being  that  of  the  piano;  the  floor,  which  is  covered 
with  linoleum  or  some  similar  material,  is  not  the  best  in 
the  world,  and  there  is  not  much  enthusiasm  or  go  about 
the  dancing.  Still  it  may  inspire  you.  There  is  a  good- 
looking  girl  in  light-blue  sitting  by  herself,  and  you  move 
up  to  her,  and  ask  for  the  honour.  She  dances  beauti- 
fully. She  tells  you  something  about  herself — does  this 
poor  child  of  the  night.  She  speaks  with  a  slightly  for- 
eign accent ;  indeed,  she  tells  you  that  she  is  a  German, 
and  has  been  in  England  but  a  few  months.  The  dance 
over,  you  ask  if  she  will  have  some  refreshment;  and, 
wonderful  to  relate,  she  takes  a  lemon  squash !  She 
seems  quite  a  nice  quiet  girl. 

While  you  are  having  your  drink — if  you  are  wise  you 
will  follow  the  young  lady's  example,  and  take  a  lemon 
squash — you  take  another  look  round,  and  make  some 
guesses  about  the  people  amongst  whom  you  are.  Two 
of  the  men  have  a  striking  resemblance  to  prize-fighters, 
and  you  surmise  they  are  here — in  case  of  accidents,  let 
us  say.  Another  man  of  a  pronounced  Jewish  type  ap- 
pears to  be  a  very  prominent  member  of  the  club — you 
afterwards  learn  that  he  is  the  proprietor,  and  if  you 
watch  the  women  present  very  carefully  you  will  notice 


234        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

how  eager  they  are  to  be  first  in  his  good  graces.     Others 


IgCl       lllt_\       cllV.      IU     U\_     1HOL     111     1110     gwu     gl 

of  the  men  lounge  about  the  bar,  while  most  of  the  women 

sit  by  themselves  on  one  side  of  the  room.     In  very  truth, 

the  scene  is  of  the  dullest.     The  music  strikes  up  again, 

and  you   invite  a  handsome  girl   in  black  to 

dance.      She  accepts,  and  as  vou   spin  round 

room.  tr      '  ,  l 

you  ask  if  she  comes  often  to  the  place,  and  if 
it  is  always  as  quiet  as  it  is  this  night.  Yes,  she  tells  you, 
she  comes  often,  but  this  is  not  a  good  night — so  many 
are  away  at  other  dances;  generally  it  is  very  lively  and 
gay.  Is  she  English?  No;  she  comes  from  Finland. 
(Nearly  all  the  women,  you  find  out,  are  foreigners.) 
On  the  conclusion  of  the  waltz  you  ask  your  partner  if 
she  will  have  "  something" — and  she  also  takes  a  lemon 
squash.  She  gently  hints  that  she  likes  you  very  much, 
and  will  you  take  her  up  to  supper?  You  are  rude  enough 
to  say  you've  had  supper,  and  the  girl,  who  is  probably 
well-seasoned  to  such  rebuffs,  turns  away  without  a  mur- 
mur. And  so  the  night  wears  on.  Everything  is  ex- 
tremely decorous  and  unspeakably  dull ;  were  it  not  for 
the  presence  of  these  unfortunate  women,  it  would  be 
quite  unremarkable  in  any  way.  And  so  far  as  vou  can 
see  the  rules  of  the  club  are  strictly  enforced,  only  mem- 
bers being  allowed  to  purchase  drinks. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THE    NATIONAL    SPORTING    CLUB 

'  There  is  absolutely  nothing  illegal  in  boxing  itself.  It  is  indeed 
a  noble  and  manly  art,  which  I  hope  will  never  die  out  of  this 
country." — Sir  Charles  Hall. 

The  club-house  stands  on  the  north-west  corner  of 
Covent  Garden,  and  has  something-  of  a  history.  Time 
was  when  Covent  Garden  itself  was  the  centre  of  the 
town,  and  its  residences  were  tenanted  by  the  nobility. 
In  these  days  Bow  Street  was  a  fashionable  promenade 
for  beauties,  great  ladies,  wits,  and  beaux.  In  the  middle 
of  the  seventeenth  century  what  is  now  the  club-house  of 
the  National  Sporting  Club  was  the  home  of  an  Earl  of 
Sterling;  later,  it  was  the  house  of  the  famous  Sir  Harry 
Vane.  Still  later,  it  was  the  residence  of  that  Earl  of 
Orford  who  was  better  known  as  Admiral  Russell.  But 
fashion  moved  away  from  Covent  Garden  and 

Its  story. 

'  went   west."     Somewhere  about   I//O  Rus- 
sell's house  was  transformed  into  a  hotel — it  is  said  that 
it  was  the  first  hotel  in  London.     It  was  a  large  affair, 
with  accommodation  and  stabling  for  a  hundred  noble- 
men  and   horses.      At   the  beginning  of  the   nineteenth 

235 


j.V        THE    X  TGI  IT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

century  the  place  was  known  as  the  Star — from  the  num- 
ber of  men  of  rank  who  frequented  it.  Coming  further 
down  the  record,  the  building  appears  as  Evans's  Supper 
Rooms  and  Music  Hall ;  still  nearer  the  present  time,  it 
was  a  noted  sporting-tavern  where  fights  were  arranged 
amidst  much  betting,  whilst  the  evenings  closed  in  it  as 
the  "  Cave  of  Harmony."  The  genius  of  Thackerav  in 
The  N ezveomes  has  immortalised  some  of  these  entertain- 


t*&-  e.uc,er<e    c°Rk.i 


BtTT.r«S°r' 


ments.  The  scene  of  that  chapter  in  which  the  Colonel 
rebukes  the  disreputable  artist  is  laid  practically  in  the 
National  Sporting  Club."  write  the  authors  (Messrs.  A. 
F.  Bettinson  and  YV.  Outram  Tristram)  of  the  history  of 
the  National  Sporting  Club,  a  book  published  towards  the 
end  of  1901.  The  New  Hall  was  built  in  1856  from 
designs  by  Mr.  Finch  Hill,  and  cost  £5000.  Seconds 
invite  competitors  there  now  to  a  Magic  Circle  where 
seconds   of  another   kind   used   to   ask   another   kind   of 


THE    NATIONAL    SPORTING    CLUB        237 

audience  if  they  would  come  with  them  '  o'er  the  downs 
so  free.'  Glees  have  given  way  to  gloves,  and  Bishop  has 
been  deposed  in  favour  of  Bettinson."  In  other  words, 
the  National  Sporting  Club,  with  Mr.  Bettinson  as  its 
manager,  is  now  the  principal  centre  in  these  islands  of 
the  "  Noble  and  Manly  Art." 

The  club  has  been  in  existence  about  eleven  years,  and 
its  annual  season — in  which  it  has  its  boxing  contests  and 
competitions — is  from  September  or  October  to  April  or 
May.  Its  "  theatre"  has  been  the  scene  of  many  famous 
encounters,  some  of  the  most  notable  pugilistic  Cham- 
pions of  the  World  having  appeared  in  it.  The  following 
"  first-class  fighting  men"  who  have  figured  on  the  list  of 
the  National  Sporting  Club  may  be  mentioned  :  Plimmer, 
Peter  Jackson,  Frank  Slavin,  Jim  Stevens,  Bill  Corbett, 
Driscoll,  Pedlar  Palmer,  Frank  Craig  (the  "  Coffee 
Cooler"),  Burge,  Kid  M'Coy,  Kid  Lavigne,  Dave  Wal- 
lace, Alf  Wright,  Jim  Barry,  Dido  Plumb,  Jack  Roberts, 
and  Harry  Harris. 

As  is  well  known,  some  of  the  contests  at  the  club  have 
had  unfortunately  a  fatal  ending.  Out  of  many  hundreds 
of  fights  it  was  hardly  possible  not  to  anticipate  some- 
thing of  the  kind  might  happen.  Presently  you  shall 
enter  the  club,  see  the  Doctor,  Dr.  Jackson  Lang,  one  of 
the  most  genial  and  kindliest  of  men,  examine  the  com- 
petitors, then  you  shall  descend  into  the  theatre,  and  be- 
hold the  battles  in  the  ring.     First,  however,  you  must 


238        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

listen  to  what  Lord  Wolseley,  then  Commander-in-Chief 
of  the  Army,  said  at  the  club  in  1899,  when  he  was  dis- 
tributing prizes  to  certain  soldiers  who  had  taken  part  in 
boxing  competitions.  Lord  Wolseley  said:  'I  am  de- 
lighted with  the  very  good  boxing  witnessed.  Well  do  I 
remember   this   Hall    (being   older   than   most   gathered 

here)  when  devoted  to  other  uses,  and  a  man 
Wolseley         w^n    a    ^c^e   was    the    entertaining    subject. 

Everybody  is  now  pleased  to  see  it  used  for 

boxing.  J  J  l 

more  suitable  purposes.  Magnificent  speci- 
mens of  humanity  and  well-trained  athletes  are  constantly 
taking  part  in  a  noble  game  and  affording  amusement  to 
the  community.  If  I  were  to  exempt  the  great  use  to  our 
country  of  this  gallant  and  noble  game  it  would  be  unfair 
and  unkind,  for  its  usefulness  is  unbounded.  I  sincerely 
trust  it  may  flourish,  as  such  exhibitions  are  the  true  test 
of  British  pluck.  The  club  has  contributed  largely  to  a 
much-needed  want,  and  long  may  it  continue  to  show  its 
members  and  guests  as  good  sport  as  it  has  done  this 
evening.  As  military  men  we  are  all  pleased  to  see  such 
manly  fighting,  and  under  such  conditions  as  have  pre- 
vailed to-night  it  is  especially  adapted  for  soldiers  when 
they  have  to  fight,  as  sometimes  happens  on  the  field  of 
battle,  without  arms.  It  is  conducive  to  endurance  and 
pluck,  and  makes  men  of  them — the  sort  of  men  who 
alone  can  defend  us  against  our  foes."  Of  course  there 
are  two  views  of  boxing :    one  that  indicated  above,  the 


THE    NATIONAL    SPORTING    CLUB        241 

other  that  it  is  an  unmitigatedly  brutal  business.  Equally  of 
course,  the  truth  as  usual  lies  somewhere  between  extreme 
views.  And  it  is  well  to  remember  that  in  countries  where 
boxing  is  unknown,  the  knife,  the  dagger,  the  stiletto  take 
the  place  of  the  fists.  And  the  evil,  if  evil  there  be,  in  box- 
in";  battles,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind,  is  reduced  to  a  mini- 
mum  at  the  National  Sporting  Club,  where  the  utmost  care 
and  caution  are  exercised  by  those  who  superintend  them. 
But  it  is  high  time  to  take  a  look  within  the  club.  It  is 
evening,  and  Covent  Garden,  which  all  day  long  has  been 
filled  with  garden  and  market  produce  drawn  from  far 
and  near  and  the  vendors  of  the  same,  is  hushed  and  still. 
You  find  yourself  in  the  Entrance-hall  of  the  club,  and 
you  notice  the  fine  staircase,  which  formed  part  of  the 
Britannia,  one  hundred  guns,  flagship  of  Admiral  Russell 
at  the  battle  of  La  Hogue  in  1692,  handsomely  carved 
with  anchors,  ropes,  and  other  symbols.  This  Admiral 
Russell  was  no  other  than  that  Earl  of  Orford  of  whom 
mention  was  made  in  the  opening  paragraph  of  this  chap- 
ter. You  pass  on  into  the  Coffee  Room,  a  large  and  com- 
fortable chamber,  its  walls  hung  with  sporting  prints  and 
portraits  of  celebrities  and  a  series  of  sketches 
by  "  Cee  Tee."  In  one  corner  of  the  room  is  ciub-hous^ 
the  bar,  and  in  the  intervals  between  the  con- 
tests and  boxing  matches  you  may  see  round  and  about 
it  some  of  the  greatest  sportsmen  of  England,  discussing 

events  over  foamy  tumblers  or  tankards.     And  here,  per- 

16 


242-       THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

haps,  you  may  be  introduced  to  the  oldest  member  of  the 
club,  a  hearty  gentleman  who  tells  you  he  is  seventy-six 
and  walks  ten  miles  ever}'  day  of  his  life;  you  borrow 
the  happy  phrase  of  Oliver  Wendel  Holmes,  and  congrat- 
ulate him  on  being  seventy-six  years  young!  Young, 
heavens,  yes !  for  he  drinks  from  a  great  pot  o'  beer ; 
you  are  filled  with  envy,  as  it  is  years  since  your  doctor 
told  you  that  beer  was  not  for  you  and  other  gouty  bodies. 
From  the  Coffee  Room  you  move  on  into  the  Billiard 
Room,  on  the  walls  of  which  is  depicted  the  story  of  the 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor.  Beyond  that  again  is  the 
Theatre,  and  in  its  centre  is  the  Ring — which  is  a  figura- 
tive expression,  for  the  stage  on  which  the  matches  are 
fought  out  is  a  square.  Expert  opinion  from  all  parts  of 
the  world  has  pronounced  the  Theatre  of  this  club  an  ideal 
place  for  watching  boxing,  and,  of  course,  for  boxing  too 
On  the  occasion  of  a  great  contest  the  place  is  crowded 
with  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  gentlemen  in  evening- 
dress,  all  keenly  watching  the  struggles  in  the  Ring, 
between  professionals  or  amateurs,  as  the  case  may  be. 
But  first  of  all  you  shall  go  with  the  Doctor,  Dr.  Jack- 
son Lang,  and  see  those  who  are  about  to  box  undergo 
his  examination;  if  they  cannot  pass  it,  they  cannot 
appear  in  the  Ring.  This  examination  is  of  the  most 
searching  character,  but  as  those  who  come  up  for  the 
contests  have  all  been  thoroughly  trained,  it  is  not  often 
that   any  one  is  rejected.      In  the  case  of  novices  it  is 


THE    NATIONAL    SPORTING    CLUB        245 

different.  And  here  you  shall  be  given  a  glimpse  of 
something  von  are  not  very  likely  to  see  for  yourself,  and 
this  is  the  Doctor's  examination  of  a  batch  of  novices. 


D^   "Jack" 

COMPETITOR^    . 


Dr.  Jackson  Lang's  room  is  not  a  large  one;  it  is  adorned, 
however,  by  some  of  the  sketches  of  our  mutual  friend, 
Mr.  Tom  Browne.     While  the  examination  is  going  on, 


246        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LOXDON 

a  secretary  sits  in  a  corner,  and  jots  down  the  names  of 
the  would-be  competitors.  '  Come  along!"  cries  the  Doc- 
tor, and  there  appears  a  giant  from  Ratcliff.  The  Doctor 
looks  at  him,  as  he  tells  him  to  expose  his  body.  '  Feel- 
ine  well  and  fit?"  asks  the  Doctor.  'Yes."  'When 
were  von  ill  last?"  "  Never  ill,"  grins  the  giant.  '  What's 
your  weight  ?"  And  some  other  particulars  are  asked  of 
the  giant.  Meanwhile  the  stethoscope  is  counting  the 
beats  of  the  giant's  heart.  '  Been  here  be- 
!rt\  ^'re?"  asks  the  Doctor.     "  Once."     "  Did  you 

t he  Doctor.  J 

go  through  all  the  rounds?"  or  "  How  many 
rounds?"  the  giant  is  asked,  and  his  answer  being  satis- 
factorv,  and  his  heart  found  to  be  sound,  he  is  dismissed 
as  being  "  all  right,"  and  he  goes  off  to  get  ready  for  the 
fray  with  a  large  and  abounding  smile.  But  the  next 
man,  who  hails  from  Deptford  or  Kentish  Town  or  from 
some  other  district  of  the  town  (your  boxer,  like  certain 
lords,  is  always  Jones  or  Smith  or  Robinson  "  of"  Some- 
where), is  perhaps  not  so  fortunate.  The  usual  interrog- 
atories are  put  to  him  by  the  Doctor,  who  looks  at  him 
with  a  shrewd  though  kindly  smile;  the  heart's  action  is 
examined;  it  is  not  what  it  should  be.  "  Come  back  after 
a  while,"  he  is  told;  '  you  are  too  much  excited  at  pres- 
ent"— this  is  the  Doctor's  friendly  way  of  intimating  that 
this  particular  candidate  for  the  honours  of  the  Ring  is 
rejected;  after  all  the  others,  who  troop  one  by  one  into 
the   Doctor's   sanctum,   have  passed,   or   not   passed,   he 


THE    XATIOXAL    SPORTING    CLUB        247 

returns,  as  he  does  not  wish  to  take  the  hint  that  has 
been  given  him,  but  this  time  he  is  told  that  he  is  not  fit, 
and  he  retires  in  deep  dejection.  And  so  on  it  goes;  the 
procession  of  novices  defiles  before  the  Doctor  —  there 
may  be  a  dozen  of  them  or  more.  Each  of  them  has  his 
peculiarities  of  dress  and  accent  and  appearance.  They 
follow  all  sorts  of  trades  and  occupations :  one  is  a  car- 
riage-painter, another  is  a  sailor  (his  splendid  chest  is 
gorgeous  with  fine  tatooings  of  Japan!),  a  third  keeps  a 
stall  in  the  Borough,  a  fourth  is  a  coster,  a  fifth  is  a 
labourer,  a  sixth  a  bricklayer,  a  seventh  a  soldier,  etc. 
There  are  two  things  which  are  to  be  noticed:  the  thor- 
oughness of  the  examination,  and  the  class  from  which 
the  novices  are  drawn. 

Enough  of  this.  You  are  anxious  to  see  the  boxing 
match,  and  you  take  your  place  on  the  Moor  of  the 
Theatre,  on  the  stage  behind  it,  or  in  the  gallery.  In  the 
centre  of  the  stage  behind  the  Ring  are  the  referee  and 
the  timekeeper;  on  either  side  of  it,  or  in  such  positions  as 
give  the  best  view  of  the  operations,  are  the  judges.  The 
Ring  is  what  is  known  as  the  twenty-four-foot  ring;  it 
is  surrounded  by  ropes  bound  in  cloth  ;  in  the  corners 
are  the  seconds  of  the  boxers,  each  having  by  him  towels, 
sponge,  and  water  for  refreshing  his  particular  man. 
Enter  the  contestants,  attired  for  business;  they  put  on 
the  regulation  gloves ;  the  manager  steps  forward  and 
announces   their   names   in   a   loud,   clear   voice;     a   bell 


248        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


In  the  Ring. 


sounds,  and  the  boxers  move  into  the  centre  of  the  Ring 
and  shake  hands.     This  is  to  be  a  contest  of  so  many 

rounds,  two  minutes  each,  and  the 
contest  is  decided  by  "  points" — that 
is,  in  the  event  of  neither  being  in- 
capacitated in  one  way  or  another. 
You  look  on  at  the  first  round,  and 
it  is  not  in  human  nature  not  to  feel 
the  excitement  of  the  occasion.  The 
fact  is  that  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world  more  exciting  than  a  first-class  well-contested  box- 
ing match.  As  you  watch  the  two  men  fighting  you 
mark  their  fine  physique  (and  probably  wish 
you  were  built  on  somewhat  similar  lines). 
They  are  good  specimens  of  athletic  humanity ;  their 
skins  are  like  satin,  and  the  muscles  show  up  like  knotted 
ropes.  Then,  as  blows  are  ex- 
changed, you  wonder  just  what  it 
means  to  stand  up  and  receive  them 
— and  give  as  good  as  one  gets,  or 
better.  It  means  pluck,  courage, 
judgment,  skill,  as  well  as  the  clear 
eye  and  the  sound  body — all  very 
excellent  things.  You  look  on,  and 
if  you  are  not  already  a  partisan  of  one  or  other  of  the 
men,  you  find  your  sympathies  alternating  between  the 
two  as  the  fight  goes  on.     If  the  contest  is  fairlv  even,  the 


THE    NATIONAL    SPORTING    CLUB        249 


"  opening"  will  not  be  of  the  "  terrific"  sort,  but  cautious, 
each  man  feeling  for  his  chance.  And  as  the  chance  pre- 
sents itself,  there  will  be  "  straight  lefts,"  "  low  body 
blows,"  and  "  sichlike"  until  "  time"  is  called  by  the  time- 
keeper sounding  his  gong.  The  boxers,  whose  skin  in 
places  is  turning  from  white  to  red,  retire  to  their  corners, 
where  their  seconds  immediately  treat  them  to  rubbing- 
down,  a  taste  of  water,  and  much  towelling  and  flapping 
of  towels.  A  few  seconds  pass,  "  time"  is  called,  the 
gong  sounds,  and  at  it  the  two  men 
go  again.  And  so  on  through  the 
various  rounds,  until  one  of  them 
has  established  his  superiority  over 
the  other.  It  is  not  often  there  is  a 
draw,  but  it  occasionally  happens. 
The  match  settled,  you  return  to 
the  Coffee  Room — for  your  coffee, 
another  contest,  and  you  stop  for  it  also. 

One  of  the  great  features  of  the  National  Sporting 
Club  is  its  concerts,  at  which  the  best  talent  appears.  Its 
house-dinners  are  remarkably  enjoyable  functions — the 
Cave  of  Harmony  returns  to  town  again,  but  under  much 
pleasanter  conditions.  At  the  concerts  lady-vocalists  fre- 
quently are  to  be  seen  and  heard,  and  these  are  the  only 
occasions  on  which  ladies  may  get  a  peep  into  the  club. 
Among  these  privileged  performers  have  been  Miss  Cissie 
Loftus,  Miss  Louie  Freear,  Mrs.  Langtry,  and  Mrs.  Beer- 


Perhaps    there   is 


250        THE    XTGHT    SIDE    OE    LONDON 


bohm  Tree.  These  ladies  appeared  in  connection  with  the 
Referee's  Children's  Dinner  Fund,  which  the  National 
Sporting  Club,  among  others,  took  under  its  hospitable 
wing.  The  National  Sporting  Club  has  a  very  extensive 
membership,  the  most  prominent  among  these 

Modern  ,,   .—       •       ,   •  ,,        .  .  t 

"Corinthians."  Corinthians  oi  the  twentieth  century  being 
Lord  Lonsdale  (President),  Sir  George  Chet- 
wynd,  Sir  Claude  de  Crespigny,  Major-General  Eox  (In- 
spector of  the  Army  Gymnasia),  Captain  Bower,  Captain 
Edgeworth  Johnstone,  Mr.  C.  W.  Blacklock,  Mr.  Eugene 
Corri,  Mr.  Angle,  Mr.  J.  E.  Dewhurst,  Air.  G.  Dunning, 


and  Mr.  George  Vize. 


C/^PTAirH 


Q\PT|r1( 


CHAPTER    XVIII 


A    SCHOOL    FOR    NEOPHYTES 


"  The  defeated  man  had  gained  a  great  reputation  from  an  initial 
encounter  at  Habbi jam's." 

National  Sporting  Club,  Past  and  Present. 

There  are  very  few  people  interested  in  the  Noble  and 
Manly  Art  who  have  not  heard  of  Bob  Habbijam's 
School  for  Neophytes  in  Newman  Street — perhaps  the 
outside  world  may  not  know  much  about  it,  but  most 
patrons  of  the  Ring-  know  it  well;  in  its  way  there  is  no 
more  famous  establishment  than  Habbijam's.  There  you 
may  see  as  fine  exhibitions  of  scientific  boxing  as  any- 
where in  London — and  almost  every  night,  though  the 
gentle  reader  may  not  suspect  it,  several  boxing  matches 
may  be  seen  in  one  or  more  parts  of  the  town.  But,  if 
you  are  interested  in  this  kind  of  thing,  you  can't  do 
better  than  look  in  at  Bob  Habbijam's,  where 
you  are  pretty  certain  to  get  what  the  Sporting  Nlght.s  Spon." 
Life  terms  "  A  Grand  Night's  Sport."  Well, 
you  shall  now  spend  a  couple  of  hours  there.  You  have 
manaeed  to  o-et  the  entree.  You  find  vour  way  into  a 
room  of  very  moderate  dimensions — so  moderate,  in  fact, 

251 


THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

that  the  Ring  occupies  pretty  well  the  whole  of  it,  there 
being  just  left  space  sufficient  to  allow  four  or  five  steep 
benches  to  be  ranged  against  the  walls  on  two  sides  of  the 
Ring.  Mr.  Habbijam  presides  over  the  entertainment  in 
person,  and  he  takes  good  care  that  the  combatants  don't 
shirk  their  work,  as  you  shall  presently  see. 

Half  a  dozen  events  with  gloves  are  to  be  run  off  this 
evening,  you  are  informed,  and  having  climbed  with  some 
difficulty  into  or  on  one  of  the  precipitous  benches  afore- 
said, you  take  a  look  at  the  empty  Ring,  and  then  at  the 
house — there  are  about  seventy  or  eighty  of  Bob's  patrons 
present,  and  they  are  of  all  ranks  and  degrees,  the  top  and 
the  bottom  of  the  social  scale  on  an  equality,  for  there  is 
no  such  leveller  as  Sport.  Now  you  hear  it  announced 
that  the  first  number  on  the  night's  programme  is  a  Six- 
Rounds  Contest  between  a  Paddington  man  and  one  from 
Walworth ;  hard  on  the  announcement  the  men.  accom- 
panied by  their  seconds,  enter  the  Ring,  their 

A  Six- 
Rounds  "  decks  cleared  for  action,"  and  excellent  speci- 

Contest, 

mens,  in  all  respects,  you  observe,  of  the  boxer 
sect.  No  time  is  wasted.  Habbijam's  exists  for  business, 
and  nothing  else.  In  the  first  round  the  Paddington  man 
gets  the  best  on  "  points."  by  the  aid  of  a  very  straight 
left  in  the  face,  but  in  the  second  round  the  Walworth 
champion  returns  the  compliment,  and  plants  a  hard  left- 
hander on  the  other's  eye.  In  the  third  round  the  Wal- 
worth lad  is  sent  down  four  times  from  very  straight  and 


A    SCHOOL    FOR    XEOPHYTES  255 

hard  left-handers  in  the  face;  however,  he  manages, 
'tween-whiles,  to  get  in  a  couple  of  good  left-handed 
leads.  In  the  next  round  he  does  better,  and  holds  his 
own  fairly  well,  but  in  the  fifth  he  goes  groggy.  In  the 
sixth  he  stands  up  gamely  to  the  end,  but  the  Taddington 
man  wins.  Both  men,  during  the  contest,  receive  much 
applause,  and  on  its  conclusion  the  loser  gets  as  hearty 
cheers  as  the  victor,  for  he  has  fought  a  good  fight. 

To  this  there  succeeds  another  Six-Rounds  Contest 
between  a  representative  of  Bloomsbnry  and  an  Oxford 
boxer.  It  begins  in  a  very  fast  manner,  and  involuntarily 
you  hold  your  breath  and  open  yonr  eyes  very  wide,  as 
the  rattling  blows  follow  each  other  in  quick  order.  It  is 
a  contest  in  which  both  men  work  hard,  dealing  each 
other  plenty  of  left-handers  on  the  face,  the  head,  ribs, 
and  so  forth.  There  is  some  "  tricky"  fighting — meaning 
thereby  that  there  is  as  much  scientific  avoiding  of  blows 
as  well  as  giving  and  taking.  In  the  end  the  decision  is 
in  favour  of  the  Bloomsbnry  boy,  but  the  Oxonian  has 
done  very  well,  and  has  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  him- 
self. Indeed,  both  contestants  have  done  so  well  that 
Habbijam  promptly  says  they  are  lads  to  his  liking,  and 
offers  them  a  purse  of  £20  for  a  Fifteen-Rounds  Contest, 
to  be  fought  in  three  weeks'  time ;  the  offer  is  as  promptly 
accepted.  But  the  next  contest  on  the  programme  is  of  a 
different  kind,  and  meets  with  the  proprietor's  strong  dis- 
approval.     In  this  fight  another  Bloomsbnry  warrior  is 


256 


THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


opposed  by  a  man  from  Mile-End.  They  fight  two 
rounds  in  a  rather  lackadaisical  manner,  showing  small 
desire  to  hit  out  hard  and  straight.  Their  work  is  clever 
enough,  but  it  is  not  "  meant."  So  Mr.  Hab- 
^oconet"t  bijam  steps  forward  and  stops  the  affair,  re- 
marking, "  I  pay  my  talent  the  highest  wages 
of  any  one,  and  I  expect  a  fair  quid  pro  quo  for  my  out- 
lav.  When  I  am  not  satisfied  with  any  turn  on  the  pro- 
gramme I  stop  it."  And  stop  this  contest  he  certainly 
does.     A  prompt  man  is  Bob  Habbijam,  as  the  following 

anecdote  taken  from  the  pages 
of  the  history  of  the  National 
Sporting  Club,  already  re- 
ferred to  in  a  preceding  chap- 
ter, sufficiently  attests — 

"  Tradition  tells  that  Hab- 
bijam took  as  his  partner  one 
Shah  Home.  A  brass  plate 
inscribed  with  the  two  names 
decorated  the  door  of  the  famous  establishment.  A 
Contest  took  place,  and  on  the  junior  partner  de- 
volved the  duty  of  taking  the  money.  He  took  it. 
But  on  the  following  morning  £30  was  not  forthcom- 
ing. Shah  (the  fierce  light  of  unusual  responsibility 
having  made  him  blind  to  the  world)  had  not  the 
least  idea  where  the  £30  was.  It  was  probably  in 
some  Persian  harem.      He  was  asked  to  fetch  it.      But 


) 


vb 


A    SCHOOL    FOR    NEOPHYTES 


257 


Promptness. 


while  he  was  still  on  the  quest  of  the  Golden  Fleece, 
a  mysterious  individual  called  Hedgehog  (by  reason 
of  his  spiky  hair)  was  ordered  to  be  ready  with  a 
screwdriver.  On  the  reappearance  of  Shah, 
not  bringing  the  shekels  with  him,  a  silent 
signal  from  Habbijam  set  Hedgehog  to  work  on  the  brass 
plate.  It  was  detached.  It  was  cast  into  the  street,  and 
a  new  method  of  dissolving  business  combinations  was 
signalled  by  these  ever-memorable 
words,  '  That  ends  the  partner- 
ship!"' 

So  much  by  way  of  aside.  You 
shall  now  see  the  last  Six-Rounds 
Contest,  making  the  fourth  provided 
for  your  entertainment  this  evening. 
It  turns  out  to  be  the  best  thing  you 
have  seen.  One  of  the  rivals  is  a 
soldier,  a  lance-corporal ;  the  other  hails  from  Isling- 
ton. The  soldier  tops  his  opponent  by  several  inches,  and 
seeks  to  gain  an  advantage  by  the  impact  as  the  Isling- 
ton boxer  comes  rushing  in.  But  the  latter  uses  his 
"  fives"  very  cleverly  and  fast,  and  soon  goes  ahead.  In 
the  second  round  the  corporal  gives  the  other  some  hard 
raps  on  both  sides  of  his  head,  and  in  the  third  round 
sends  him  to  the  floor  with  a  hard  right-hander  on  the 
jaw.  Whether  you  like  or  dislike  boxing,  this  is  the  kind 
of  blow  which  wakes — you  can't  help  it ;    it  is  involun- 

17 


258        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

tary — in  you  a  strange  and  most  extraordinary  savage 

thrill ;     it   makes   some  primitive   instinct   quiver   within 

you;    something  aboriginal   yet   horribly   contemporary, 

so  to  speak,  rises  and  asserts  itself.     There  is 

Floored. 

a  savage  in  all  of  us !  And  not  very  far  away 
either.  But  the  Islington  man  gets  up  from  the  ground; 
he  is  not  done  with  yet.  He  delivers  some  telling  blows 
on  the  region  of  the  soldier's  kidneys,  and  with  effect. 
The  fifth  round  has  its  varying  fortunes,  but  the  soldier's 
right  eye  is  half  closed,  and  the  other  man's  upper  lip 
is  badly  cut.  Both  men  are  a  good  deal  distressed,  but 
they  stand  up  to  each  other  well  in  the  final ;  all  declare 
it  to  be  a  splendid  exhibition  of  courage,  endurance,  and 
skill.  There  is  not  much  to  choose  between  the  two,  but 
the  soldier  is  declared  the  loser.  Bob  offers  to  put  up  a 
purse  if  they  will  try  again,  and  the  soldier  says  he  would 
like  to  meet  the  Islington  chap  once  more,  but,  alas !  he 
is  under  orders  to  go  to  India  next  week,  and  so  must 
decline.  Bob  and  the  audience  express  their  regret,  and 
hearty  applause  is  given  the  gallant  soldier  boy.  But 
what  will  his  Colonel  say  to  him  to-morrow? 

You  have  now  had  your  fill  of  fighting  (vicariously) 
for  one  evening.  Another  night — in  the  next  chapter — 
you  shall  see  boxing  at  the  East  End  at  "  Wonderland" 
— a  name  which  covers  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
phases  of  the  Night  Side  of  London. 


CHAPTER    XIX 


WONDERLAND 


"East  is  East,  and  West  is  West" — but  in  London  they  have  points 
in  common. — A  gloss  on  Rudyard  Kipling's  line. 

'  Wonderland"  is  in  the  heart  of  Whitechapel;  from 
St.  Mary's  Station  you  can  reach  the  place  in  a  minute. 
The  name,  "  Wonderland,"  can  hardly  be  said  to  be  de- 
scriptive in  this  particular  instance,  for  "  Wonderland" 
turns  out  to  be  a  gigantic  building,  formerly  used  as  a 
music-hall,  or  for  baby  or  beauty  shows,  but  which  is 
now  the  scene  of  boxing  contests.  The  boxing  to  be 
seen  there  is  well  enough ;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  "  Won- 
derland" has  witnessed  some  of  the  best  contests  in  Lon- 
don;  but  it  is  the  place  itself,  with  its  illuminating 
glimpses  into  East  End  life,  that  is  most  vitally  inter- 
esting. Let  it  be  granted,  as  Euclid  used 
to    say,    that    you    have    selected    a    Saturday  turday 

-  '  J  night. 

night — the    particular    Saturday    night    when 
"  Jewey"  Cook  and  Charley  Knock  box  an  eight-rounds 
draw.     You  have  found  your  way  to  the  place,  and  you 
notice  that  there  is  quite  a  large  crowd  outside  the  doors ; 
still  the  crowd  is  not  waiting  for  a  chance  to  go  in,  but 

259 


26o        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LOXDOX 

fi  tr  news  of  the  result  of  the  battles  taking  place  within. 
Thev  have  not  the  necessary  shilling  or  sixpence  that 
gives  admission,  but  they  have  their  sympathies,  and 
thev  are  anxiously  expectant.  You  pass  into  the  build- 
ing— at  the  dour  stands  a  solitary  policeman.  You  pay, 
perhaps,  the  highest  price,  three  shillings,  which  entitles 
you  to  a  seat  on  the  stage.  You  have  come  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  before  the  time  announced  for  the  beginning  of 
the  first  match,  but  the  vast  building  is  already  packed, 
except  on  the  stage,  where  there  is  still  room.  And 
what  a  dense  ma-s  of  human  beings  there  is!  Frobably 
there  are  two  thousand  men  crammed  into  the  space. 
Most  of  them  are  young — the  great  majority  are  between 
twenty  and  thirty,  and  nearly  all  of  them  are  of  the 
easily  recognisable  East  End  types,  though  there  is  to  be 
seen  here  a  heavier  percentage  of  Jewish  noses  than  is 
usual  in  an  East  End  assemblage.  The  proprietor  of 
'  Wonderland."  you  see  from  the  programme,  is  a  Jew; 
one  of  the  boxers,  to  judge  from  his  nickname,  is  a  Jew: 
and.  quite  unmistakably,  your  Hebrew  of  Aldgate  is  well 
represented  to-night,  and  takes  a  keen  interest  in  the  ring 
and  its  doings. 

The  programme  is  a  long  one — you  are  to  get  plenty 
for  your  money ;  there  are  no  fewer  than  ten  events  on 
the  list :  three  eight-round  contests,  five  of  six-rounds 
each,  and  a  four-round  "  go."  First  of  all.  a  competi- 
tion for  9  st.  2  lb.  men  is  begun.     The  crier  of  the  events, 


"  WONDERLAND"  261 

a  man  with  a  strong,  clear  voice,  steps  into  the  ring,  and 
at  his  call  six  aspirants  come  out  from  the  audience  and 
stand  in  a  line  heside  him.  All  about  the  ring  is  the  hum 
of  talk.  Lads  from  Bermondsey  are  backing  '  Tuzzev" 
Winters,  the  favourite  of  that  locality,  others  are  talking 
about  the  prowess  of  '  Old  Bill  Corbett"  of  Lambeth, 
while  a  third  section  canvass  the  merits  of  a  champion 
from  Bethnal  Green.  And  so  on ;  each  boxer  has  his 
friends  and  admirers,  his  critics  and  his  detractors,  like 
greater  folk  in  the  bigger  rings  of  the  world.  But  there 
is  no  disorder ;  indeed,  the  orderliness  of  the 
crowd  is  remarkable,  considering  its  extent  competkiong 
and  composition.  And  in  all  this  great  build- 
ing there  is  not  a  single  policeman  to  be  seen !  While 
you  have  been  making  these  observations  the  competitors 
for  honours  in  the  9  st.  2  lb.  lot  have  retired.  The  sec- 
onds, with  the  usual  paraphernalia,  get  into  their  corners. 
Two  gladiators  appear,  and  the  crier  introduces  them  to 
the  audience  with  the  most  elaborate  distinctness. 
"  Three  rounds.  Two  minutes  each.  Between  So-and- 
so  of  Lambeth  and  So-and-so  of  Poplar.  On  my  right 
is  So-and-so  of  Lambeth;  on  my  left  is  So-and-so  of 
Poplar."  And  that  there  may  be  no  mistake  he  points 
with  stretched-out  forefinger  at  each  of  the  combatants 
in  turn.  Then  the  rivals  set  to  work.  There  is  some 
careful  sparring,  a  free  exchange  of  blows,  some  dodging, 
and  suddenly  one  of  the  two  gets  in  a  swinging  left- 


262        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

hander — down  goes  the  other  on  the  floor  as  "  time"  is 
called.  A  second  round,  and,  before  it  is  half  over,  the 
same  man  is  sent  to  the  ground  again  by  a  "  short  left- 
handed  jolt  under  the  jaw" — to  quote  the  chaste  expres- 
sion of  the  sporting  reporter.  The  referee,  seeing  that 
the  man  on  the  floor  is  hopelessly  outclassed,  stops  the 
match,  giving  the  victory,  of  course,  to  the  other.  There 
are  several  more  matches,  until  all  are  weeded  out,  from 
one  reason  or  another,  except  two,  who,  it  is  announced, 
will  come  together  again  to  decide  the  matter  on  the 
following  Saturday.  Next  comes  a  final  match  in  a 
competition  between  8  st.  4  lb.  men ;  it  is  without 
special  incident. 

All  this  while  you  have  been  looking  on  from  your  seat 
on  the  stage,  but  your  attention  has  been  drawn  off  not 
a  little  by  the  persistent  attentions  of  the  vendors  of  re- 
freshments who  perambulate  the  place  ceaselessly — in 
truth,  they  may  be  said  to  pervade  it.  The  viands  and 
other  things  they  offer  you  smack  of  the  locality  in  which 
'  Wonderland"  stands.  First  on  the  scene  is  the  pur- 
veyor of  that  greatest  of  East  End  delicacies,  the  stewed 
eel.  '  Any  toff  (those  seated  on  the  stage, 
0,  Lx  where  the  prices  are  highest,  are  necessarily 

'  toffs")  'ave  a  bit  o'  jelly?"  cries  the  man  in 
your  ear,  just  as  you  are  most  intent  on  the  ring.  "  Any 
toff  'ave  a  bit  o'  Monte?"  (Monte,  you  guess,  is  the 
name  of  the  cordon  bleue  who  prepares  the  dish.)     "  Any 


"  WONDERLAND" 


263 


toff  'ave  a  bit  o'  jelly,  six  or  three?"  (The  allusion  to 
"  six  or  three"  refers  to  the  price  per  bowl.)  And  more 
than  one  toff  patronises  the  Monte-seller.  Hardly  has 
he  gone  when  a  boy  assails  you  with,  "'  Orange,  good 
orange,  good  juicy  orange!  Want  an  orange?  Good 
juicy  orange!"  The 
said  oranges  are  handed 
round  in  a  wash-hand 
basin  of  enamelled  ware. 
To  him  succeeds  an- 
other youth,  carrying 
"  smokes"     on     a     tray. 


"  Cigareets,  good  cigar, 
shag!"    he    chants    and 

JE.ui.y  - 

chants     again     in     a 

piercing    voice — "  cigar- 

ee-eets,       cigar-ee-eets !" 

And  now  bustles  forward  a  waiter,  and  shouts  out  some 
mystic  words,  which  you  understand  by  and  bye,  more 
from  effect  than  cause,  so  to  say,  to  mean  that  he  wishes 
you  to  give  him  an  order.  What  you  really  hear  him 
say  is,  "  Sorders,  any  sorders,  gemmen,  sorders !"  His 
desire  for  "  sorders"  is  gratified,  but  not  to  any  very 
alarming  extent.  And  after  him  there  appears  a  man 
with  ginger-beer  and  other  "  minerals."  He  has  a  sort 
of  half-musical  cry:  '  Limonade,  limonade,  ginger-beer, 
or  kola,  kola,  ko-la !"    And  all  through  the  evening  these 


264        THE    XIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

itinerants  come  and  importune  you.  They,  their  wares, 
and  their  cries  form  an  integral  part  of  as  curious  a  scene 
as  any  in  London. 

The  first  six-rounds  contest  is  now  "  on."  A  Mile- 
Ender  is  matched  against  an  Aldgate  boxer,  but  the 
former  lias  the  best  of  it  from  the  beginning,  though  his 
opponent  stands  up  to  him  gamely  enough  ;  the  latter  gets 
applause  liberally,  but  the  other  gets  the  verdict.  On  this 
fight  there  follows  what  turns  out  to  be  the  event  of  the 
evening;  this  is  the  contest  between  Charley  Knock  of 
Stratford  and  "  Jewey"  Cook  of  Hammersmith,  As 
they  come  into  the  ring  there  are  cheers  from  every  part 
of  the  building;  evidently  both  have  many  friends,  many 
backers ;  shouts  of  '  Charley"  contend  with  shouts  of 
"  Jewey."  Charley  stands  up,  with  his  head  thrown  well 
back  ;  "  Jewey"  carries  his  bent  well  forward  ;  of  the  two, 
the  former  bears  himself  the  easier;  there  is  something 
sinister  in  the  pose  of  the  other.  In  the  first  round 
Charley  sets  the  pace  very  fast,  and  lands  a  hard  "  left 
hook"  on  the  "  Yiddish  boy's"  jaw.  "  Jewey,"  however, 
evens  up  matters  with  a  sharp  swinging  right  on  the  left 
eye  of  his  competitor.  But  on  the  whole  Charley  has  the 
best  of  the  round.  When  the  bell  sounds  (by  the  way. 
the  bell  is  a  particularly  brazen  gong)  and  the  men  retire 
to  their  corners,  they  are  given  thunderous  applause  from 
all  parts  of  the  house.  And,  indeed,  applause,  in  spite  of 
the  efforts  of  the  management  to  control  it,  breaks  forth 


"  WONDERLAND"  267 

whenever  Charley  or  "  Jewey"  gets  in  a  really  telling 
blow.  In  the  next  round  "  Jewey"  is  very  busy  with  his 
hands — so,  for  that  matter,  is  Charley,  and  there  is  not 
much  to  choose  between  them.     And  the  third 

A  fight  which 

round  is  also  a  pretty  even  one — Charley  lands         ends  in  a 

draw. 

a  couple  of  very  hard  right-handers  on 
"  Jewey  V  short-ribs,  but  "  Jewey"  retaliates  on  the  other 
man's  face.  The  fourth  round  is  a  fast  and  heavy  one, 
and  yon  watch  it  almost  breathlessly.  '  Jewey"  adds  a 
lump  to  the  right  optic  of  Charley,  who  responds  by  a 
hard  hit  on  his  man's  nose  and  a  terrific  right-hander  in 
t'other's  ribs,  amidst  vociferous  cheering  for  both  rivals. 
The  contest  continues  very  even  until  half-way  through 
the  seventh  round,  when  Charley  nearly  settles  it  by  plant- 
ing a  terrible  swinging  right  on  "  Jewey's"  face,  which 
brings  the  latter  to  his  knees.  '  Jewey,"  to  the  delight  of 
his  partisans,  manages  to  get  up,  and  fights  on  till  "  time" 
is  called.  It  is  now  the  eighth  round,  and  excitement  runs 
high  in  "  Wonderland."  Both  men  receive  attentions  and 
advice  from  their  seconds;  then,  having  shaken  hands, 
they  set  to  once  more.  There  is  much  hard  hitting  on 
both  sides,  but  there  is  no  decisive  blow,  no  knock-out. 
The  gong  sounds,  and  amidst  a  veritable  Babel  the  referee 
announces  his  decision — the  verdict  is  a  "  draw."  This, 
of  course,  satisfies  nobody,  and  the  whole  house  breaks 
into  an  indescribable  uproar.  For  a  moment  it  seems  as 
if  there  were  to  be  a  gigantic  row,  but  the  tumult  ceases 


268        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

as  the  crier  steps  into  the  ring,  and  throws  oil  on  the 
troubled  waters  by  saying  there  was  no  disputing  the 
decision  of  the  referee — that  was  the  invariable  rule,  as 
everybody  knew.  And  he  reminded  them  that  the  referee 
was  strictly  impartial.  Moreover,  there  would  be  an- 
other opportunity  for  Charley  and  "  Jewey"  to  meet  once 
more;  the  management  would  see  to  that.  In  the  mean- 
time, they  had  all  witnessed  a  very  fine  display;  the  men 
were  evidently  very  evenly  matched,  and  there  was  not 
much  difference  between  them.  Whereupon  the  storm  is 
calmed. 

Other  contests  follow,  but  none  is  quite  so  interesting 
as  that  between  Charley  and  '  Jewey."  As  you  drive 
home,  you  reflect  on  all  you  have  seen,  and  perhaps  won- 
der whither  such  a  place  as  "  Wonderland"  tends.  Well, 
whither  does  it  tend?  And  you  must  remember  that  box- 
ing contests  are  constantly  to  be  seen,  as  was  said  at  the 
beginning  of  this  article,  in  other  parts  of  the  town — for 
instance,  in  the  Drill  Hall  at  Woolwich,  at  the  North 
London  Baths,  and  at  Lexington  Hall,  Golden  Square. 
Perhaps  it  may  help  to  answer  the  question  if  you  con- 
sider the  following  quotation  from  a  charge  of 
cJboSng.  Mr-  Justice  Grantham  in  a  case  where  the 
authorities  of  the  National  Sporting  Club  were 
on  trial  for  "  feloniously  killing  and  slaying-"  a  certain 
boxer.  That  is  to  say,  the  boxer  in  question  was  believed 
to  have  died  from  or  as  the  result  of  a  blow  delivered  in 


"  WONDERLAND" 


269 


a  contest  at  the  National  Sporting  Club.  '  It  is  much 
better,"  said  the  judge,  "  for  a  man  to  use  the  weapon 
God  lias  given  him,  namely  his  fists,  than  the  knife,  be- 
cause it  is  not  so  dangerous,  and  that  is  why  a  great 
number  of  people  are  fond  of  boxing.  On  the  other  hand 
it  is  very  desirable  that  proper  boxing  under  proper  rules 
should  be  kept  up ;  all  people  should  not  be  afraid  of  using 
their  fists  when  necessary.  As  long  as  man  is  human 
people  will  lose  their  tempers  and  wrongs  will  be  done, 
and  it  is  most  desirable  that  Englishmen  should  never  use 
another  weapon,  and  never  lose  his  temper,  and  always 
punish  the  man  who  is  wrong." 


CHAPTER    XX 

NEW    YEAR'S    EVE    AT    ST.    PAULAS 
"  Scots  wha  hac." 

Time  was  (according  to  report,  for  which  there  seems 
to  have  been  some  foundation)  when  on  any  XTew  Year's 
Eve  on  the  steps  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  and  all  around 
that  famous  pile,  was  a  perfect  Saturnalia  of  Scotsmen 
pledging,  not  wisely  hut  too  well,  in  the  wine  of  their 
native  land,  themselves,  their  "  neebours,"  and  their 
"  auld  acquaintance."  On  the  last  night  of  the  year  of 
grace,  iooi,  it  was  to  be  perceived  that,  while 

Midnight,  &  L 

st.  raui-s,  the  festival  of  '  Auld  Lang  Syne"  was  still 
1 901. 

celebrated  at  St.  Paul's,  its  reputed,  afore-time 

character  had  been  somewhat  lost.  Many  of  those  who 
witnessed  the  proceedings  bewailed  that  the  affair  had 
been  shorn  to  a  large  extent  of  its  former  Bacchanalian 
glories,  and  that  the  Scot,  who  had  formerly  (dis)  graced 
the  occasion  in  considerable  numbers,  was  now  conspicu- 
ous by  his  absence.  At  the  same  time  the  scene  was  not 
wanting  in  a  certain  interest ;  and  as  there  is  still  nothing 
quite  like  it  in  the  story  of  the  Night  Side  of  London,  you 

shall  mingle  with  the  crowd,  listen  to  its  humours,  per- 
270 


NEW    YEAR'S    EVE    AT    ST.    PAUL'S       271 

haps  discover  a  "  brither  Scot,"  hear  the  great  clock  boom 
out  the  midnight  hour,  join  in  the  query,  "  Should  auld 
acquaintance  be  forgot?"  and  try  for  the  moment  to  for- 
get that  there  are  some  people  you  think  were  much 
"  better  dead." 

Like  Johnson,  you  take  a  walk  down  Eleet  Street,  and 
then  on  up  Ludgate  Hill,  until  you  find  yourself  on  the 
confines  of  a  crowd  of  people,  a  single  glance  at  whom 
will  tell  you  that  you  are  in  what  is,  for  the  most  part,  a 
gathering  of  young  men  and  women,  the  majority  of 
them  belonging  to  the  familiar  East  End  types  of  beauty 
and  fashion.  And  the  voices  you  listen  to  are  nearly  all 
eloquent  of  Whitechapel  and  the  territories  thereunto 
adjoining.  Hear  and  there  is  the  accent  of  middle  Lon- 
don— the  true  Cockneydom ;  in  actual  quality 
of  tone  it  differs  but  little  from  that  of  White-  "  Le 

cr  u\\  ci. 

chapel — it  too  pronounces  its  long  a  as  i,  as  for 
instance,  it  persistently  calls  a  lady  a  "  lidy,"  but  it  is 
somewhat  better  educated,  and  stops  short  of  such  a  word 
as  "  garn !"  And  on  the  vagrant  air  perchance  there 
comes  the  burr  of  Yorkshire.  On  a  sudden  you  hear 
asked  a  "  Hoo  's  a'  wi'  ye?"  and  you  know  that  the  affair 
is  not  quite  forsaken  of  the  Caledonian,  stern  and  wild. 
Only,  he  does  not  look  at  all  stern,  nor  is  he  particularly 
wild.  At  least,  not  yet — but  it  is  still  some  time  to  mid- 
night, and  John  Barleycorn  is  a  mighty  power.  And 
now,  from  the  far  distance,  there  reaches  you  the  skirl 


2-J2        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

of  the  pipes,  mercifully  modified  and  attenuated.  But  on 
the  whole,  at  any  rate  at  first,  there  is  more  silence  than 
noise.  Perhaps  the  reason  for  this  may  be  discerned  in 
the  fact,  which  soon  presses  itself  emphatically  on  your 
observation,  that  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  this  in- 
formal New  Year's  assembly  is  composed  of  waterproof- 
caped  policemen,  standing  "  two  by  two,"  gazing  about 
them  in  that  good-humoured,  tolerant  manner  which  is 
characteristic  of  the  London  "  Robert." 

It  is  a  cheerful  scene — this  you  see  in  the  light  of  the 
electric  lamps,  though  the  night  is  damp  and  overcast  with 
dark  clouds,  from  which  there  descends  now  and  again  a 
chill  drizzle,  a  sort  of  heavy  "  weeping"  Scotch  mist,  in 
honour  of  the  occasion  perhaps.  Underfoot  the  pave- 
ments and  the  roadway  are  deep  in  mud.  Should  a  pass- 
ing vehicle  come  your  way,  you  will  receive 
pleasant'  some  generous  splashes  as  its  churning  wheels 

go  by.  But  in  spite  of  these  little  amenities 
every  one  looks,  or  tries  to  look,  pleasant.  Above  the  sea 
of  heads  rises  the  grey  and  ghostly  facade  of  the  Cathe- 
dral— the  columns  in  the  foreground  a  shade  less  grey 
and  ghostly  than  the  much  shadowed  mass  in  the  back- 
ground. No  light  streams  from  the  windows  of  the  un- 
benignant,  inhospitable,  frowning  building.  The  Church 
has  no  message  to-night,  save  one  of  silence,  for  these 
her  sons  and  daughters.  Formerly  there  used  to  be  a 
service  held  here  at  midnight,  but  the  practice  has  been 


SHOULD  AULD  ACQUAINTANCE  BE  FORGOT? 


NEW    YEAR'S    EVE    AT    ST.    PAUL'S       275 

discontinued.  Formerly  also,  the  wide  steps  of  St.  Paul's 
were  open  to  the  multitudes  on  the  New  Year  eves,  but 
to-night  the  former  are  railed  in  and  the  latter  railed  out. 
St.  Paul's  says,  "  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  you,  nothing 
to  say  to  you,  you  children  of  the  night."  Both  of  the 
discontinuances  just  mentioned  may  be  necessary,  but 
somehow  one  imagines  that  in  other  lands  Mother  Church 
would  have  coped  with  the  revels  of  Xew  Year's  Eve  in 
a  less  brusque  and  far  more  sympathetic,  and  even  more 
forgiving,  fashion.  But  St.  Paul's  stands  and  frowns 
the  frown  of  obdurate  respectability. 

Yet  notwithstanding  the  ban  of  the  Church  and  the 
inclemency  of  the  weather,  the  scene  remains  stubbornly 
cheerful,  for  the  people  remain  stubbornly  cheerful.  You 
push  your  way  into  the  crowd — it  is  not  a  difficult  opera- 
tion, thanks  to  its  being  broken  up  by  the  policemen  as 
aforesaid.  Perhaps  you  stop  and  have  a  chat  with  one  of 
these  keepers  of  the  King's  peace,  and  you  remark  that 
there  is  not  much  "  fun"  going,  and  you  say  this  in  rather 
a  disappointed  tone  most  probably.  Where,  you  ask,  are 
the  frolics  you  had  reasonably  expected  to  see?  Where 
the  meeting  and  the  fervent  hand-clasps  of  the 
Scotsmen  of  London?    And  you  are  told  that  ■/•ft? 

midnight. 

perhaps  you  might  see  something  of  that  sort 
at  some  Caledonian  dance  or  another  which  is  being  held 
in  another  part  of  the  town — thither,  you  hear,  the  choicer 
spirits  have  departed,  and  New  Year's  Eve.  like  so  much 


276        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

else  in  London  town,  is  not  as  it  "  used  to  was,"  so  far  as 
St.  Paul's  is  concerned.  Shall  there  be  no  more  cakes  and 
ale?  you  wonder;  but  even  as  you  murmur  this  your  at- 
tention is  caught  by  a  group  of  young  sailors,  talking  and 
laughing  together.  The  names  of  their  ships  are  embla- 
zoned on  their  caps,  and  you  notice  they  belong  to  differ- 
ent vessels.  Perhaps,  you  think,  they  are  Scottish  lads 
come  to  foregather  with  their  countrymen,  but  their 
speech  is  not  that  of  the  North.  Another  tbinsf  you  ob- 
serve  is  that  while  they  are  good-humoured  they  are 
perfectly  sober.  And  in  another  minute  there  is  the 
sound  of  a  concertina — the  most  popular  of  all  street  in- 
struments in  a  crowd — and,  hey!  the  jolly  tars  are  at  it, 
heel  and  toe,  footing  the  hornpipe  right  merrily,  while 
the  crowd  look  on  and  roar  encouragement.  At  one  side 
of  them  stands  a  man  in  bonnet  and  kilts,  and  he  may  or 
may  not  be  a  Scotsman,  you  think  doubtfully,  for  the 
cowl  does  not  make  the  monk,  but  you  hesitate  no  loneer 
when  you  hear  him  cry,  "  Ay,  ay;  they're  nae  that  foo — 
nae  foo  at  a' !"  as  he  half-approvingly  regards  the  dancing 
Jacks.  You  move  on  a  few  steps,  and  now  you  are  beside 
the  railings  of  St.  Paul's,  the  unkindly  railings  that  shut 
in  the  broad  steps  of  the  Cathedral.  And  here  you  behold 
some  swift  interchanges  of  certain  black  bottles  from 
hand  to  hand  and  from  mouth  to  mouth.  "  Auld  Kirk" 
it  is — Glenlivet,  Talisker,  Lagavulin,  what  not — and  the 
"  wee  drappie"  circulates. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  AT  ST.  PAUL'S  2^ 


The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  twelve.  There  is  some 
faint  singing  of  sentimental  songs,  such  as  are  to  he  heard 
in  every  similar  crowd,  but  they  are  Cockney  ditties  every 
one,  smacking  all  alike 
of  the  music  -  halls. 
Then  there  is  a  sudden 
silence  —  in  a  way  the 
instinct  of  the  crowd 
is  remarkable.  A  big 
group  forms,  and  as 
the  first  stroke  booms 
forth  these  Scottish  ex- 
iles from  Whitechapel 
sing  together  "  For  Old 
Long  Zine" — at  least, 
these  appear  to  be  the 
words  of  the  song.  But 
mingling  with  these 
voices  are  the  deeper 
notes  of  the  genuine 
thing, 


"  Should     auld 
acquaintance     be     for- 
got, and  never  brocht  to  mind? 
and  from  somewhere  over  your  head  there  is 
the  quick  spurt  and  flame  of  an  impertinent 
flashlight — and   you   realise  that  you   have  been   photo- 
graphed, willy-nilly.     You  are  not  the  only  chiel  amang 


The  clock  booms  on. 

Midnight. 


2/8        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

the  crood  takkin'  notes,  an'  faith!  he'll  prent  'em  as  well 
as  you.  It  is  at  this  instant  that  a  grisly  suspicion  slowly 
takes  possession  of  you — and,  likely  enough,  annoys  you 
more  than  a  little.  You  saw  the  hig  group  form  and 
begin  its  song;  the  group  was  formed,  and  the  song  was 
sung — well,  not  to  say  good-bye  to  the  Old  and  to  wel- 
come in  the  New  Year,  but  to  afford  that  flashlight  pho- 
tographer his  opportunity,  and  furnish  some  Barnum  of 
a  journalist  with  "copy."  You  have  been  tricked!  At 
first  you  resent  the  thing,  and  then  you  laugh.  '  Every- 
thing goes!"  You  "  can't  'elp  but  smile,"  as  you  realise 
you  have,  as  it  were,  been  "  given  away  with  a  pound  o' 
tea !"  But  the  sentiment  of  the  New  Year's  Eve ! — Oh, 
hang  sentiment;   let's  "  lorf." 

But  is  the  whole  sentiment  of  the  scene  merely  a  thing 
made  and  manufactured  for  selling  in  parts?  Who 
knows?  Still,  here,  at  any  rate,  comes  a  piper  through 
the  crowd,  and  at  his  heels  a  rabble.  See  how  he  blows 
with  distended  cheeks  into  his  pipes,  how  proudly  he 
clasps  them,  how  gaily  he  marches  along,  swinging  with 
the  swing  of  the  music,  piping  as  if  his  life  depended  on 
it !     Hurricanes  of  Highland  reels  and  strath- 

"  The  Piper  o'  ,     .  ,  , 

st.  Paul's."  speys  sound  in  your  memory,  perhaps,  as  he 
passes  by;  visions  of  the  Highlands  and  the 
Islands — deep-sunken  glens  shadowed  by  silver  birches, 
broad-bosomed  lochs  with  deer  drinking  on  the  maree, 
hills  of  purple  rising  fold  on  fold  to  the  radiant  line  of 


NEW    YEAR'S    EVE    AT    ST.    PAUL'S       279 

sky,  lonely  shores  of  firths  shrinking  far  inland  from  the 
ocean,  the  quiet  of  the  clachans  and  the  silence  of  the 


o'  "rue.    North  " 

LUOCAT6.     HlkU, 

New  v/eAR.-e>   eve,  • 


sheilings,  grey  villages  and  towns  and  cities  by  the  rivers 
and  on  the  coasts,  beside  the  grim  kirks  the  green  graves 


28o        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

of  the  heroes  and  the  martyrs  of  the  race — all  the  music, 
and  the  poetry,  and  the  deathless  romance  of  a  people 
rise  and  fall,  and  rise  again  like  the  waves  of  the  sea,  as 
the  piper  goes  piping  by — rise  and  fall  and  rise  again  in 
all  true  Highland  hearts,  as  he  blows  his  heart  and  puts 
his  soul  into  his  music.     It  is  not,  you  know  very  well, 
great  music,  really  fine  music — there  be  many  who  will 
tell  you  that  it  is  the  least  musical  music  in  the  world — 
but  it  goes  to  the  head,  and  the  heart,  and  the  feet  as 
does  no  other.     So  behind  this  London  piper,  marching, 
marching,   marching,  down   Ludgate  Hill   and  up  Fleet 
Street,  goes  the  whole  crowd  from  St.  Paul's.     It  is  a 
lively  quick-step  he  is  playing,  the  crowd  steps  to  it  like  a 
single  man,  and  so,  through  the  drizzle  of  the  rain  and 
the  sludge  of  the  street,  it  moves  on  and  on  into  the  New 
Year. 

After  so  much  sentiment,  you  naturally  turn  into  the 
Press  Club,  where  you  speedily  and,  perhaps,  effectually 
damp  it.     But  sentiment  was  always  a  thirsty  business! 


CHAPTER    XXI 

THE    HOPPERS'    SATURDAY    NIGHT 
"  A-roaming  we  will  go." 

A  curious  though  passing  phase  of  the  XTight  Side  of 
London  is  to  be  seen  towards  the  end  of  August,  when 
the  hop-picking  season  begins — the  time  when  a  vast 
army  of  East  Enders  take  their  annual  holiday.  Every 
year  thousands  of  men,  women,  and  children  from 
Whitechapel  and  Southwark  make  their  way  from  the 
great  city  into  the  pleasant  land  of  Kent,  where  the  ripe 
hops,  in  long  lanes  of  green  and  gold,  stand  waiting  for 
the  hand  of  the  picker.    The  Saturdav  night  of 

The 

the  exodus  sees  some  extraordinary  scenes  at  East  End 

exodus. 

the  railway  station  from  which  the  majority  of 
the  "  hoppers"  depart — scenes  full  of  the  most  genuine 
human  interest,  humorous,  pathetic,  lively  rather  than 
thrilling,  but  certainly  richly  coloured  by  the  tragi-comedy 
of  life.  Formerly  the  hoppers  made  London  Bridge  sta- 
tion the  centre  of  these  scenes,  and  there  was  a  sort  of 
dramatic  propriety  in  London  Bridge,  with  its  historic 
associations,  being  a  starting-point.     Now  it  is  from  the 

Southwark    station,    Blackfriars    Bridge,    that    the    hop- 

281 


282        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

pickers  descend,  like  clouds  of  locusts,  upon  the  "  gardens" 
of  Kent.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  hoppers  had  very  little 
to  do  with  the  change — the  omnipotent  railway  company 
"  fixed  it  all  up." 

Not  that  it  is  only  by  rail  that  the  East  End  goes  on 
this  annual  excursion.  Those  who  own,  or  who  can  beg, 
borrow,  or  steal,  a  pony  and  van  or  a  "  moke"  and  bar- 
row, travel  down  to  Maidstone  and  the  hop  country  by 
road — these  be  the  aristocrats  among  the  hoppers,  for 
there  are  social  distinctions  amongst  them,  "'  and  what 
for  no?"  as  they  say  in  North  Britain.  The  \\  nitechapel 
family  that  drives  in  van  or  cart  to  the  hop-fields  is 
proudly  conscious  of  going  there  in  style.  But  few  of 
the  hoppers,  however,  can  experience  this  luxury  of  feel- 
ing. A  goodly  number  of  them,  indeed,  cannot  afford 
the  railway  fare  even,  and  have  to  fall  back  on  that  useful 
animal  called  Shanks'  mare.  Still,  somehow,  anyhow, 
whether  it  is  by  road  or  rail,  fifty  thousand  East  Enders 
get   themselves  out   of  London   town.      The 

The  march 

of  the  scenes  which  may  be  beheld  as  the  hoppers 

hoppers. 

march  along  the  Dover  Road  are  picturesque 
enough,  but  for  light  and  shade,  for  complete  scenic 
effect  on  a  grand  scale,  as  in  the  staging,  so  to  speak,  of 
some  gigantic  Beggar's  Opera,  Blackfriars  Bridge  must 
be  seen  on  the  hoppers'  Saturday  night. 

Long  before  midnight   streams  of  people  have  been 
Mowing  towards  the  station,  but  it   is  about  that  time 


THE    HOPPERS'    SATURDAY    NIGHT        283 

when  the  most  impressive  pictures  may  be  viewed.  Stand 
for  a  moment,  say,  in  Ludgate  Circus,  and  then  walk  up 
the  road  and  on  across  Blackfriars  Bridge.  And  you  will 
see — what  yon  will  see.  It  will  be  something  like  this. 
The  bridge  is  in  a  half-gloom,  and  the  partial  darkness 
adds  a  touch  of  suggestion  and  a  hint  of  mystery.  The 
air  is  perhaps  windless  and  still,  but  the  sullen  roar,  which 
is  London's  voice  by  day,  is  not  yet  hushed.  As  you  note 
the  figures  that  flit  about  in  the  shadows,  your  eyes  fasten 
themselves  on  a  procession,  small,  but  typical,  moving 
slowly  alongside  the  left  parapet.  You  could 
not  have  hit  upon  anything  more  characteris-  procession! 
tic  than  this  little  procession,  though  it  is  only 
one  of  many  similar  processions.  Your  gaze  may  stray 
away  from  it  for  a  second  in  search  of  other  objects  of 
interest,  but  it  will  inevitably  come  back  to  it ;  it  is  ex- 
actlv  what  you  have  come  out  to  see — at  any  rate,  here  is 
the  beginning  of  it.  For  this  little  procession  is  a  proces- 
sion of  hoppers. 

"  Hark  !   hark  !   the  dogs  do  bark  ;    the  beggars  are  leaving  the  town ! 
Some  in  rags,  some  in  bags,  and  some  in  a  velvet  gown  !" 

Is  it  so?  Not  quite.  Take  a  good  look  at  this  procession 
of  the  hoppers.  It  consists  of  some  fourteen  or  fifteen 
males  and  females — souls,  the  polite  authors  of  another 
day  would  have  been  good  enough  to  call  them. 

In  its  van  are  two  small  old  women ;  their  years  six  or 


284        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

seven ;  yes,  they  are  already  old,  preternaturally  old,  for 
slum  life  has  left  its  aging  mark  upon  them.  But  if  you 
could  look  into  their  eyes  as  they  walk  along  the  bridge 
(for  them  no  Bridge  of  Sighs  just  now)  you  would  see 
the  light  of  hope  and  happiness  shining  in  them.  Nothing 
in  the  world  can  ever  make  them  young  again — it  might 
well  be  they  were  born  old ;    now  they  are  an- 

Two  old 

women  aged     ticipating   with    delight    unspeakable  three  or 


six  or  seven. 


four  weeks  in  the  country  under  the  open  sky 
— a  period  of  delicious  vagabondage — "  Oh,  sich  larks — 
a  reg'lar  beano!"  And  the  small  hearts  are  as  big  with 
joy  as  they  can  hold.  Both  of  these  little  old  women 
carry  burdens ;  this  is  to  be  no  holiday  of  mere  idleness. 
One  has  two  umbrellas  and  a  bright  new  kettle,  the  other 
a  large  package,  bulging  with  a  nondescript  collection  of 
God  knows  what.  And  thus  they  head  the  procession  for 
the  promised  land  under  the  bright  star  of  hope. 

Two  or  three  feet  behind  them  comes  a  man.  On  his 
left  shoulder  is  a  great  sack,  a  veritable  hold-all,  cheap  but 
excellent,  filled  wellnigh  to  bursting  with  all  manner  of 
household  stuff.  With  his  right  hand  he  leads  a  small 
urchin  of  three.  The  little  chap  no  doubt  is  tired;  he 
has  probably  walked  miles  from  his  home  in  Mile- 
End  or  further  east,  but  he  walks  gamelv  on, 

The  leader 

his  steps  three  to  two  of  his  father's,  without 
a  murmur — he  too  has  the  beano  and  the  green  fields  in 
his  mind.     Now,  take  a  good  square  look  at  the  man. 


i  \* 


THE    HOPPERS'    SATURDAY    NIGHT        287 

He,  you  can  see,  is  the  real  leader  of  the  expedition.  He 
is  dressed  in  moleskins ;  they  are  worn,  work-stained,  but 
not  ragged.  His  face  is  good-humoured,  and  the  smile 
he  turns  on  the  trotting  child  is  only  partially  alcoholic. 
In  fact,  he  is  a  favourable  specimen  of  the  hopper,  and 
your  instinct  tells  you  he  is  not  a  bad  sort.  You  guess 
his  ordinary  business — he  may  be  a  dock  hand,  a  "  la- 
bourer," or  anything  in  the  East  End.  Now  he  is  out  for 
his  holiday,  a  holiday  of  work,  it  is  true,  but  still  a  holi- 
day, and  he  means  to  enjoy  every  moment  of  it.  You  see 
he  and  the  child  are  quite  happy. 

At  his  heels  are  four  children  of  various  ages,  boys  and 
girls  "  assorted."  Each  of  them  carries  something — pots, 
pans,  a  jar,  packages,  and  so  on.  They  don't  talk  much 
— they  are  too  tired  for  one  thing,  but  they  march  on 
steadily  towards  the  big  station  whence  they  are  to  depart 
for  the  fields  of  Kent.  The  next  figure  is  that  of  a  man, 
and  on  his  shoulder  also  is  a  sack  exactly  like  that  of  the 
other  man  in  front.     You  can  tell  at  a  glance 

h  igures 

he  is  not  such  a  good  fellow  as  the  first.     He  inthe 

procession. 

carries  his  sack  clumsily  and  as  if  under  pro- 
test;  he  carries  it  heavily  in  his  mind,  you  may  be  sure, 
as  well  as  on  his  shoulder.  Now  and  again  he  throws 
the  sack  down  with  a  very  audible  curse,  but  soon  he  picks 
it  up  and  moves  on  after  the  rest.  He  is  disposed  to  be 
somewhat  quarrelsome,  and  you  guess  he  has  already  had 
as  much  drink  as  is  good  for  him.     His  idea  of  a  holiday 


288        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

is  to  go  on  the  spree — on  the  "  booze,"  he  would  call  it — 
and  he  is  going  on  it  while  he  may.     He  is  not  very  drunk 
yet,  but  he  cherishes  a  sure  and  certain  purpose  to  be  more 
so.     By  his  side  runs  a  small  boy,  holding  in  his  hand  the 
man's  straw  hat ;    in  his  other  hand  is  a  bundle.     Next 
come  two  or  three  more  children,  all  tired,  all  laden,  but 
all  jogging,  jogging,  jogging  on  and  all  happy,  as  you 
cannot  fail  to  understand.     Last  in  the  procession  appear 
two  shawled,  stout,  elderly  women — the  mothers  these  of 
the  children;    and  as  they  bring  up  the  rear,  they  keep  a 
keen  watch   on  the  advancing  flock   for  stragglers,  but 
there  are  none  save  the  second  man  with  a  sack.     He  is 
the  bad  boy  of  the  party,  and  so  is  inclined  to  be  "  obstrop- 
ulous."     The  two  women  don't  pay  much  attention  to 
him.     With  all  imaginable  gravity  they  walk  along  the 
pavement,  carrying  large  packages,  in  which  perhaps  are 
the  "  things"  they  value  most.     They  are  deep  in  talk, 
discussing  their   men.    it   may   be,   or  their  children,   or 
sharing  the  gossip  of  their  quarter,   and  possibly,  very 
possibly,  improving  upon  it.     Their  language  is  not  ex- 
actly that  of  the  West  End;    it  is,  truth  to  tell,  saturated 
through  and  through  with  expressions  and  ideas  which 
are  not  precisely  literary  or  drawing-roomy,  but  the  kind 
of  subjects  they  pass  under  review  are  not  very  different 
from  those  most  often  on  the  lips  of  the  greatest  of  great 
people,  for  the  human  nature  of  the  East  End  is  as  like 
the  human  nature  of  the  West  as  are  two  barleycorns. 


THE    HOPPERS'    SATURDAY    NIGHT        289 

The  procession  wends  (the  only  member  of  it  who 
really  zvends  is  the  bad  boy,  but  any  well-regulated  pro- 
cession is  supposed  to  wend)  its  way  across  the  bridge, 
the  behaviour  of  the  little  old  women  who  form  the 
advance-guard  being  in  particular  beyond  reproach. 
When  the  Southwark  side  is  reached,  the  second  man, 


THE   WOMEN   AND  THE  CHILDREN   DRINK   GENEROUSLY. 

otherwise  the  bad  boy,  throws  down  his  sack,  grumbles 
at  the  two  women,  who  reply  in  kind,  about  the  weight 
of  the  blankety  sack  he  has  to  carry,  and  says  he  must 
have  a  rest.  This  is  not  quite  what  he  says,  but  it  is 
near  enough.     He  is  left  behind  by  all  except  his  small 

19 


290        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

hat-bearer,  but  presently  he  shoulders  his  burden  once 
more,  and  staggers  on.  In  another  minute  all  halt  unani- 
mously in  front  of  a  flaring  "  public,"  the  first  they  have 

come  to  since  we  added  ourselves  to  their  corn- 
way  house,       pany.     It  is  a  sort  of  halfway  house  between 

the  bridge  and  the  station.  The  two  men  go 
in,  while  the  women  and  the  children  sit  down  in  a  hud- 
dled group  on  the  pavement  before  the  door.  A  few 
seconds  go  by  and  then  the  men  emerge  with  huge  foam- 
ing jugs  of  'four-ale,''  which  are  passed  round;  the 
women  and  the  children  drink  generously  and  luxuri- 
ously ;   it  is  all  part  and  parcel  of  the  beano. 

And  now  there  is  no  lack  of  companions,  for  the  road- 
way is  black  with  hoppers  and  their  friends.  The  number 
of  them  goes  on  steadily  increasing;  as  some  drift  off  to 
the  station  or  the  next  public-house,  fresh  arrivals  take 
their  places.  Most  of  the  hoppers  are  on  foot,  but  a  few 
come  in  vans.  It  is  a  good-tempered  crowd ;  there  are 
jokes — most  of  them  older  than  the  hills,  a  fire  of  chaff 
of  a  homely  but  hard-hitting  variety,  shouts  of  laughter, 
a  snatch  of  song — "  Only  one  Gel  in  the  World  fur  Me," 
the  cacophonous  squeaking  of  a  cracked  concertina.  You 
can  see  there  has  been  plenty  of  drinking,  but  there  is  not 
much  drunkenness ;  few  or  none  have  reached  the  squab- 
bling stage.  The  most  intoxicated  hopper  is  far  and 
away  the  best-dressed  man  in  the  whole  lot ;  he  is  so  well 
dressed  that  yon  wonder  what  on  earth  he  is  doinsr  here. 


THE    HOPPERS'    SATURDAY    NIGHT        291 

But  what  will  impress  you  most  is  that  there  is  no 
disorder ;  then  the  picturesqueness  of  the  scene  will  grip 
you.  For  it  is  a  picturesque  scene  this,  in  the  not  too 
well-lighted  street,  and  undoubtedly  the  dark- 

,1  • r    i 1  The  happy 

ness  helps,  covering  up  the  rags  it  there  are  hoppers, 

any,  blurring  with  kindly  obscuring  hand  the 
lines  hunger  and  poverty  have  worked  into  pale  thin 
faces,  causing  a  loss  of  detail  in  the  whole  picture,  but  a 
broad  richness  of  general  effect.  The  darkness  rubs  some 
of  the  weariness  and  tiredness  out  of  the  faces  of  the  little 
children ;  you  know  the  mites  must  be  worn  out,  and  their 
presence  makes  for  pathos.  But  otherwise  the  main  note 
of  the  occasion  is  one  of  festival.  Undoubtedly  there  is 
happiness  here  in  the  street  among  the  hoppers,  nor  is 
that  happiness  by  any  means  entirely  alcoholic.  There  is 
plenty  of  fun,  and,  considering  the  circumstances,  it  is  of 
an  astonishingly  quiet  pattern.  But  a  little  further  along 
the  road  to  the  station,  and  we  happen  upon  a  scene  of 
broad  humour. 

The  street  has  now  widened  into  what  might  by  cour- 
tesy be  termed  a  square,  and  across  it  the  gleaming  win- 
dows of  two  "  pubs"  face  each  other.  The  place  is  full  of 
people — some  of  the  people  are  "  full"  too,  and  the  pubs 
are  crowded.  It  is  now  getting  on  to  the  '  Hour  of 
Closing,"  12.30,  and  every  one  seems  pretty  intent  on 
getting  out  as  much  of  the  flying  moments  as  he  can,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  getting  into  himself  or  herself  as  much 


292        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

as  he  or  she  can  hold.  There  is  a  special  attraction, 
however,  in  front  of  one  of  the  pubs,  and  like  many  of 
the  hoppers  we  stand  and  "  take  it  in."  A  couple  of  hop- 
pers are  dancing  on  a  narrow  strip  of  pavement  to  the  in- 

- 

spiring  strains  of  a  wheezy  concertina  played  by  another 
hopper ;  the  pair  are  encompassed  by  spectators,  who 
shout  words  of  encouragement  and  approval.  The  lady 
of  the  pair  dancing  is  a  "  fine,  upstanding  wench,"  a  by 
no  means  bad-looking  "  gel."  She  is  dressed  rather  bet- 
ter than  the  majority  of  the  other  young  women  about, 
and  sports  a  new,  blue  blouse.     She  dances 

The  "gel"  r 

in  the  with  a  certain  rough  gracefulness,  and  with 

blue  blouse. 

amazing  vigour.  Her  black  eyes  are  snapping 
fires.  Every  line  of  her  betokens  enjoyment.  See  how 
her  body  swings  and  sways  to  the  unmusical  music.  She 
is  having  a  good  time,  you  bet.  Her  partner  is  a  young 
man  of  her  own  class — perhaps  he  is  her  young  man, 
perhaps  not ;  but  subsequent  events  seem  to  support  the 
former  conjecture.  The  young  man  wears  somewhat  of 
a  sheepish  look  as  he  foots  it  a  trifle  awkwardly  on  the 
kerb,  but  "  Lizerunt,"  or  whatever  the  young  woman's 
name  is,  looks  at  him  with  keenly  resentful  glance  if  he 
shows  any  sign  of  weakening  or  stopping.  At  last,  the 
challenge  of  these  eyes  becomes  intolerable,  and  he 
springs  forward  and  puts  his  arms  round  the  fair  dam- 
sel's neck.  "  Gam !"  she  cries,  pulls  herself  away  from 
him,  and  smacks  him  hard  on  his  face.     The  spectators 


SHE   DANCES    WITH    A    CERTAIN    ROUGH    GRACEFULNESS. 


THE    HOPPERS'    SATURDAY    NIGHT        295 

grin  and  shout,  but  it  is  only  a  love-spat.  The  girl  goes 
on  dancing  as  if  nothing  had  occurred,  and  such  playful 
little  amenities  as  these  are  common  features  of  East  End 
courtships.  The  harder  the  hitting,  the  greater  the  love! 
And  appreciating  this  thoroughly,  Mr.  'Enery  'Awkins 
stands  up  to  the  girl  again,  and  begins  anew  to  do  his 
shuffling  steps  on  the  pavement.  And  now  you  notice  he 
warms  to  his  work — Lizerunt's  slap  has  done  that  much. 
Forward  and  backward  the  couple  dance ;  they  join  arms 
and  swing  together ;  then  they  line  up  and  at  it  again. 
And  so  it  goes  on  for  a  short  space  of  time.  But  this  is 
not  enough  for  'Enery,  and  after  one  or  two  turns  more, 
he  moves  forward  with  a  jump,  throws  himself  upon  her, 
encircles  her  in  his  arms — the  operation  has  been  some- 
thing of  the  suddenest — and  both  fall  to  the  ground  with 
the  time-honoured  "'  dull  thud."  At  least  you  imagine 
there  must  have  been  a  dull  thud,  but  you  cannot  hear  it 
for  the  laughing  shouts  of  the  onlookers.  Then  'Enery 
and  Lizerunt  melt  into  the  crowd,  having  covered  them- 
selves with  glory.  They  have  had  a  big  gorgeous  mouth- 
ful of  Whitechapel  delight ;  you  may  be  certain  they 
go  to  the  station  mightily  well  pleased  with  themselves. 
Hai,  tiddley,  ai !    tiddley,  ai !    tai,  tai ! 

With  the  shutting  of  the  public-houses  the  motley 
crowd  takes  up  its  miscellanea  of  sacks,  bags,  pots,  pails, 
and  other  etcetera  (including  in  one  case  the  family  cat), 
and  makes  for  the  station,  which  is  close  at  hand.     At  the 


.296        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

entrance  on  the  street  a  barrier  has  been  erected,  and  we 
are  asked  if  we  intend  purchasing  a  ticket.  We  explain 
to  the  guardian  of  the  gate,  who  has  evidently  been  frat- 
ernising with  the  hoppers — examining  their  jugs  perhaps 
— that  we  are  pressmen  and  have  come  to  look  on.  He 
smiles  indulgently  (in  a  double  sense),  fobs  a 

The  station.  , 

tip,  and  we  pass  on  to  a  second  barrier,  topped 
with  sputtering  gas-jets.  But  here  we  are  stopped  by  a 
remorseless  railway  inspector,  who  tells  us  we  can  go  no 
further  unless  we  have  tickets.  One  of  us  (the  present 
scribe — in  the  Name  of  the  Prophet!)  tries  him  with  the 
"  pressmen"  statement,  but  it  is  as  clear  as  daylight  he 
does  not  believe  it.  He  may  have  some  grounds  for  his 
incredulity,  for  the  one  of  us  before-mentioned  has  got 
himself  up  as  an  East  Ender,  and  his  make-up  is  too 
good;  the  other  of  us  is  not  wearing  his  go-to-meeting 
clothes  either.  We  are  objects  of  suspicion,  but  we  en- 
deavour to  reason  with  the  official.  '  No,"  he  says 
decisivelv,  "  you  can't  get  in  without  tickets.  Come  to 
look  on,  have  you?  Well,  we  don't  want  the  platform 
lumbered  up  with  people  looking  on  ;  there  will  be  plenty 
without  that  sort."  And  he  snorts  derisively.  We  expos- 
tulate, but  in  vain.  "  I  don't  see  it,"  concluded  the  in- 
spector. So  we  go  back  to  the  first  barrier,  tell  the  man 
on  guard  there  our  difficulty,  but  he  can  do  nothing  for 
us  except  buy  us  a  couple  of  tickets.  The  tickets  are  two 
shillings   each,   and   are  good   for  any   part  of  the  hop 


THE    HOPPERS'    SATURDAY    NIGHT        297 

country — Aylesford,  Snodland,  Hawkhurst,  Maidstone, 
Tollbridge,  and  Paddock  Wood.  At  length  both  of  us  find 
ourselves  on  the  platform,  but  we  have  a  resentful  sense 
that  the  railway  has  scored  off  us.  However,  a  day  will 
come.  Yuss,  it  will.  The  South-Eastern-Chatham- 
Dover  combination  had  better  look  to  themselves. 

Yet  the  money  for  the  tickets  was  well  spent.  The 
scene  on  the  platform  was  an  astonishing  one,  and  of 
curious  interest,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  hoppers'  Saturday 
night.  On  the  right  hand  of  the  platform  was  a  long, 
dingily  lighted  train,  entirely  composed  of  third-class  car- 
riages, from  which  all  cushions  and  other  upholstery  had 
been  stripped,  a  liberal  top-dressing  of  strong 
disinfectants  having  taken   their  place.      The         departure 

platform. 

train  is  a  long  one,  and  on  the  further  side  of 
the  platform,  across  a  yard,  are  another  platform  and 
another  train.  Five  of  these  hoppers'  '  palace"  trains 
(trains-de-Chloride  of  Lime)  left  South wark  that  night, 
each  carrying  about  five  hundred  passengers — not  a  bad 
night's  work  for  the  railway  company.  The  hoppers 
come  pouring  in.  Already  the  carriages  nearest  the  end 
of  the  out-going  train  are  filled.  You  look  in  as  you  pass, 
and  you  see  in  each  compartment  a  family  and  its  belong- 
ings— father,  mother,  children,  sacks,  bags,  pots,  pans, 
all  as  hereinbefore  indicated.  The  elders  dispose  of  their 
paraphernalia  so  as  to  make  the  compartment  appear  inca- 
pable of  holding  an  atom  more ;  two  or  three  of  the  young- 
sters lean  out  of  the  window  so  as  to  block  it.     A  party  of 


298        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 


half  a  dozen  now  come  along;  they  are  decidedly  "  under 
the  influence,"  and  they  sing  a  sentimental  song  as  they 
get  into  a  carriage — it  is  "  Break  the  News  to  Mother," 
and  they  feel  simply  glorious.  Presently  we  behold  the 
procession  we  watched  across  the  Black  friars  Bridge 
trudge  on  to  the  platform — the  two  men,  the  two  women, 
the  array  of  children.  They  fill  up  two  compartments. 
What  the  had  boy  has  been  doing  since  we  met  him  last 
we  don't  know,  but  there  he  is — safely  gathered  in.    More 

and  more  hoppers — ever 


more  and  more  hoppers 
appear,  among  them  the 
young  lady  of  the  blue 
blouse,  who  half  an  hour 
earlier  was  dancing  on 
the  pavement  before  the 
Yellow  Cow,  or  what- 
ever it  is  named.  She 
gets  into  a  carriage  with 
her  friends  and  little  lot, 
and  then  hangs  out  of 
the  window,  chaffing  the 
passers-by.  In  the  car- 
riage next  the  engine  is 


THEN  HANGS  OUT  OF  THE  WINDOW. 


a  gang  of  lads  and  boys ; 
they  are  shouting  lustily,  in  all  sorts  of  voices,  "  Shike 
'ands  an'  let  us  be  friends;  wot's  the  use  to  quarrul,"  or 
words  to  that  effect.     A  few  minutes  more,  and  the  train 


THE    HOPPERS'    SATURDAY    NIGHT        299 

pulls  out  of  the  station  amidst  cries  and  cheers.  The 
stragglers  who  have  not  succeeded  in  getting  seats  make 
a  rush  for  the  other  train — and  so  the  thing  goes  on  till 
the  last  train  leaves  and  the  station  is  closed. 

As  you  depart  you  will  observe  that  the  station,  now 
deserted,  is  beyond  peradventure  the  barest,  dreariest 
looking  place  you  have  ever  been  in.  Every  portable 
article  has  been  removed  from  it;  even  the  two  large 
weighing-machines,  its  sole  furniture,  have  been  boarded 
up  as  if  to  prevent  any  idea  of  their  being  taken  away. 
There  is  a  reason  for  all  this.  The  hop-pickers  are  not 
pickers  of  hops  only — there  you  have  it.  Now  listen  to  a 
tale  that  is  told  of  the  gentle  hopper.  Once  upon  a  time 
there  was  a  benevolently  disposed  person  who  resolved 
to  do  something  for  the  comfort  of  the  poor  hopper.  He 
put  up  a  coffee-stall,  in  the  hoppers'  station,  and  furnished 
it  splendidly  with  shining  coffee-making  machines,  cups, 
saucers,  mugs,  buns,  sandwiches — everything.  The  hop- 
pers swooped  down  on  that  coffee-stall,  and  devoured  and 
drank  till  no  more  was  left  to  devour  or  drink.  They 
needed  no  waiters;  they  went  on  the  grand 
old  plan  of  helping  themselves,  and  they  did  ^toid. 

help  themselves.  The  soul  of  the  benevolently 
disposed  individual  rejoiced  exceedingly,  but  only  for  a 
while.  Alas,  that  it  should  be  so !  For  the  hoppers  were 
not  content  with  helping  themselves  to  the  coffee  and  the 
cakes,  the  sandwiches  and  the  buns,  but  they  helped  them- 
selves also  to  the  cups  and  the  saucers,  the  knives  and  the 


300        THE    NIGHT    SIDE    OF    LONDON 

forks  and  the  spoons,  and  when  nothing  remained  of 
these  handy  and  convenient  souvenirs  of  the  coffee-stall, 
they  helped  themselves  to  the  coffee-making  machines. 
The  only  thing  they  left  to  the  benevolently  disposed 
gentleman  was  the  coffee-stall,  and  they  would  have  taken 
that,  only  it  was  too  big!  Well,  more  in  sorrow  than  in 
anger,  the  gentleman  repeated  his  experiment — with  ex- 
actly the  same  result.  Like  the  man  who  was  kicked  by 
the  mule  twice  in  the  same  place,  he  got  discouraged  and 
left  off  trying.  So  runs  the  tale,  and  it's  just  possible 
there  is  some  truth  in  it. 


<go^& 


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